There, in a broad dark oaken-panelled room Rich with black carvings and great gleaming cups Of silver, sirs, and massy halpace built Half over _Red Rose Lane_, Fitzwarren sat; And, at his side, O, like an old romance That suddenly comes true and fills the world With April colours, two bronzed seamen stood, Tattered and scarred, and stained with sun and brine. '_Flos Mercatorum_,' Hugh Fitzwarren cried, Holding both hands out to the pale-faced boy, 'The prentice wins the prize! Why, Whittington, Thy cat hath caught the biggest mouse of all!' And, on to the table, tilting a heavy sack, One of the seamen poured a glittering stream Of rubies, emeralds, opals, amethysts, That turned the room to an Aladdin's cave, Or magic goblet brimmed with dusky wine Where clustering rainbow-coloured bubbles clung And sparkled, in the halls of Prester John. 'And that,' said Hugh Fitzwarren, 'is the price Paid for your cat in Barbary, by a King Whose house was rich in gems, but sorely plagued With rats and mice. Gather it up, my lad, And praise your master for his honesty; For, though my cargo prospered, yours outshines The best of it. Take it, my lad, and go; You're a rich man; and, if you use it well, Riches will make you richer, and the world Will prosper in your own prosperity. The miser, like the cold and barren moon, Shines with a fruitless light. The spendthrift fool Flits like a Jack-o-Lent over quags and fens; But he that's wisely rich gathers his gold Into a fruitful and unwasting sun That spends its glory on a thousand fields And blesses all the world. Take it and go.' Blankly, as in a dream, Whittington stared. 'How should I take it, sir? The ship was yours, And ...' 'Ay, the ship was mine; but in that ship Your stake was richer than we knew. 'Tis yours.' 'Then,' answered Whittington, 'if this wealth be mine, Who but an hour ago was all so poor, I know one way to make me richer still.' He gathered up the glittering sack of gems, Turned to the halpace, where his green-gowned maid Stood in the glory of the coloured panes. He thrust the splendid load into her arms, Muttering--'Take it, lady! Let me be poor! But rich, at least, in that you not despise The waif you saved.' --'Despise you, Whittington?'-- 'O, no, not in the sight of God! But I Grow tired of waiting for the Judgment Day! I am but a man. I am a scullion now; But I would like, only for half an hour, To stand upright and say "I am a king!" Take it!' And, as they stood, a little apart, Their eyes were married in one swift level look, Silent, but all that souls could say was said. * * * *