But seeing him all cold and silent still, And everybody wondering more or less, Fair Adeline enquired, ‘If he were ill?’ He started, and said, ‘Yes—no—rather—yes.’ The family physician had great skill, And being present, now began to express His readiness to feel his pulse and tell The cause, but Juan said, ‘He was quite well.’ ‘Quite well; yes,—no.’—These answers were mysterious, And yet his looks appear’d to sanction both, However they might savour of delirious; Something like illness of a sudden growth Weigh’d on his spirit, though by no means serious: But for the rest, as he himself seem’d loth To state the case, it might be ta’en for granted It was not the physician that he wanted. Lord Henry, who had now discuss’d his chocolate, Also the muffin whereof he complain’d, Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate, At which he marvell’d, since it had not rain’d; Then ask’d her Grace what news were of the duke of late? Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather pain’d With some slight, light, hereditary twinges Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges. Then Henry turn’d to Juan, and address’d A few words of condolence on his state: ‘You look,’ quoth he, ‘as if you had had your rest Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late.’ ‘What friar?’ said Juan; and he did his best To put the question with an air sedate, Or careless; but the effort was not valid To hinder him from growing still more pallid. ‘Oh! have you never heard of the Black Friar? The spirit of these walls?’—‘In truth not I.’ ‘Why Fame—but Fame you know ’s sometimes a liar— Tells an odd story, of which by and by: Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer, Or that our sires had a more gifted eye For such sights, though the tale is half believed, The friar of late has not been oft perceived. “The last time was—” “I pray,” said Adeline— (Who watch’d the changes of Don Juan’s brow, And from its context thought she could divine Connexions stronger then he chose to avow With this same legend)—‘if you but design To jest, you’ll choose some other theme just now, Because the present tale has oft been told, And is not much improved by growing old.’ ‘Jest!’ quoth Milor; ‘why, Adeline, you know That we ourselves—’twas in the honey-moon— Saw—’—‘Well, no matter, ’twas so long ago; But, come, I’ll set your story to a tune.’ Graceful as Dian, when she draws her bow, She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled soon As touch’d, and plaintively began to play The air of ‘’Twas a Friar of Orders Gray.’ ‘But add the words,’ cried Henry, ‘which you made; For Adeline is half a poetess,’ Turning round to the rest, he smiling said. Of course the others could not but express In courtesy their wish to see display’d By one three talents, for there were no less— The voice, the words, the harper’s skill, at once Could hardly be united by a dunce.