This petty vantage of feminine fence had not long remained hers, had I not been more concerned to reach the great hall than to open a general attack in the matter of the missing beef and beer. The better part of the way to the house I ran rather than walked--that part, I mean, that is not in sight of the hall windows. Within I found Ned alone, eating his breakfast. A cloud of gloom was over his face, and, though he rose with great courtesy and alacrity to meet me, his greeting seemed rather a submission to my embrace than the clasp of an ardent lover. It is not unlikely that in a happier hour I had taken this reception ill, but, thinking I could read his thought, I let it pass, which I was soon very glad to have done, when his words made it plain that I had not read him amiss. For a while I pressed him with food, with questions of what rest he had taken, of his mother's health, and with other talk indifferent to the issue that yet, as I plainly saw, did lie between us. But, do what I might, I could bring no smile to his face; I could see the man held a tight rein upon himself, for all he could not keep his eyes from taking full account of my person on this his first seeing me after so many years in the full light of day, and in my proper garb. And there was great holiday in my heart, for I knew that I pleased him well; had I not the word both of mirror and handmaid that I was not ill to look upon? Moreover, those eyes of his, restrained though they were from all expressive admiration, could not conceal something that I took to be a kind of hunger. At length, finding that his discomfort was in no way diminished, I asked him, speaking mighty small and meek, what it was he wished to say to me, before I should pay my respects to my Lady Mary. "I would pray you," he answered, "by no means at this present to make mention to my mother of--of the matter--I mean, of my disgrace with His Highness of Orange." It was only by an effort, it seemed, that the last words could be uttered. I arose from the seat whence I had confronted him at the table, dropped him a little courtesy, and walked toward the door. But, passing behind his chair as I went, I felt my heart so filled with pity and sorrow that I knew I must either fall into a passion of tears or speak more fully and closely with him who now bore such things for me and mine. So behind him I stayed, and, casting an arm about his neck, "Ned," I whispered, "dear Ned, wilt in no manner be comforted?'" His voice shook a little, in spite of that curbing rein, as he answered me. "Where lies the comfort that I should take, sweet Phil?" he said. "'T is unkind in you, dear, to make me speak unmaidenly," I replied. "I know your woes, but is it, then, nothing that I also share them? Am I perhaps of no account, for that my love is no new thing?"