We were now back in the town; the streets were still full of people, and no one seemed to think of bed. Presently we passed the Castle Inn; the windows were open, and we could see a great company of gentlemen sitting round a table on which were candles lit and bowls full of strong drink; nearly every man had his pipe at his lips and his glass before him, and one of them was singing to the accompaniment of a guitar. Their faces were red and swollen, as if they had taken too much. At one end of the table sat Humphrey. What? could Humphrey, too, be a reveller with the rest? His face, which was gloomy, and his eyes, which were sad, showed that he was not. 'The officers have supped together,' said Robin. 'It may be long before we get such good quarters again. A cup of hipsy and a song in good fellowship, thou wilt not grudge so much?' 'Nay,' I said, ''tis all of a piece. Like man, like master. Officers and men alike--all drinking and singing. Is there not one good man in all the army?' As I spoke one finished a song at which all laughed, except Humphrey, and drummed the table with their fists and shouted. Then one who seemed to be the president of the table turned to Humphrey. 'Doctor,' he said, 'thou wilt not drink, thou dost not laugh, and thou hast not sung. Thou must be tried by court-martial, and the sentence of the court is a brimming glass of punch or a song.' 'Then, gentlemen,' said Humphrey, smiling, 'I will give you a song. But blame me not if you mislike it: I made the song in praise of the sweetest woman in the world.' He took the guitar and struck the strings. When he began to sing, my cheeks flamed and my breath came and went, for I knew the song; he had given it to me four years agone. Who was the sweetest woman in the world? Oh! he made this song for me!--he made this song for me, and none but me! But these rude revellers would not know that--and I never guessed that the song was for me. How could I think that he would write these extravagances for me? But poets cannot mean what they say-- As rides the moon in azure skies, The twinkling stars beside; As when in splendour she doth rise, Their lesser lights they hide. So beside Celia, when her face we see, All unregarded other maidens be. As Helen in the town of Troy Shone fair beyond all thought, That to behold her was a joy By death too poorly bought. So when fair Celia deigns the lawn to grace, All life, all joy, dwells in her lovely face. As the sweet river floweth by Green banks and alders tall, It stayeth not for prayer or sigh, Nor answereth if we call. So Celia heeds not though Love cry and weep; She heavenward wendeth while we earthward creep.