It is strange, it is very strange, and scarcely to be accounted for, that people advanced in life, and experienced in the uncertainty of all life's things, seem to have a confidence in the future which the young do not possess. They delay, they put off without fear or apprehension; they calculate as if with certainty upon the time to come; while eager youth, on the contrary, at the very name of procrastination conjures up every difficulty and obstacle, every change and chance, not alone within the range of probability, but within the reach of fate. Perhaps it is, that the old have acquired a juster appreciation of all mortal joy; perhaps it is, that the keen edge of anticipation being dulled in themselves, they cannot comprehend the impatience of others: that, knowing how little any earthly gratification is really worth, they think it but a small matter, not meriting much thought, whether the hand of the future snatches the desired object from us or not, whether the butterfly, enjoyment, be caught by the boy that chases it, or escape. So it is, however: Sir John Grey seemed not even to understand or to perceive the pain he was inflicting upon the lover; and, as Woodville knew that it would be of no use to argue, he made up his mind to enjoy the present as much as might be, and then with Mary's love for his guidance and encouragement, to seek honour and advancement in the fields before him. After a few more words he accompanied the Count of Charolois, with the principal nobles of his train and Sir John Grey, to the hostel where the English knight had taken up his abode; but, as they entered, the eyes of Richard of Woodville fell upon the figure of a poor disconsolate looking boy, who stood near, with his arms folded on his chest, and his eyes bent down upon the ground, without being once lifted to the gay and glittering group that was passing in; and pointing him out to the Lord of St. Paul, the young knight said, "He was one of those saved from the mill, my lord; and, if I mistake not, he is of kin to some of the men who perished." "Come hither, boy," said the Constable; "who art thou?" "I am Edmé Mark, my lord," replied the boy, looking up with tearful eyes; "and all my friends are dead." "Then are you the miller's son?" inquired the Lord of St. Paul. "No, sir, his nephew," the boy answered, in the jargon of his country. "Faith, then, we must do something for you," rejoined the nobleman. "Will you ride with me and be my _coustelier_, or with that knight?" "I would rather go with him," cried the boy, pointing to the young Englishman, "for he saved my life." "Well, then, take him with you, Sir Richard," said the Lord of St. Paul. "You want to swell your band." "Good faith, I have need, my lord," answered Richard of Woodville; "for the three men I left behind me when I came from Ghent, have never rejoined me."