"Don't resume, or assume anything, my dear lord," answered Sir William Arden. "Be what you are, seem what you are at all times. Confound me all men that walk in vizards! The best result always comes of the most straightforward course. But I will go and change these travel-soiled garments, and think of it all while I am getting the dust out of my eyes.--By the Lord that lives," he continued, looking out at the window, "there comes the abbess of St. Clare into the court, with Heaven knows how many more people. The castle will be too full, and I shall have to share my room with her. Well, thank Heaven for all things. She is a merry little fat soul, and will help us to laugh care away." Thus saying, he turned and left his friend, who was not ill-satisfied, on the whole, at having been forced into making a confidant of one, on whose honour, integrity, and good sense he could firmly rely. CHAPTER XXIII. There was a man walking in the woods, with a slight limp in his gait. He was coarsely but comfortably dressed, and had something very like a Cretan cap upon his head. His face was a merry face, well preserved in wine or some other strong liquor; and, from the leathern belt, which girt his brown coat close round his waist, stuck out, on the one side a long knife, and on the other the chanter of a bagpipe. The bag, alas, was gone. He looked up at the blue clear sky. He looked up at the green leaves, just peering from the branches over his head; and, as he went, he sang; for his pipes had been spoiled by Catesby's soldiery, and his own throat was the only instrument of music left him. SONG. Oh, merry spring, merry spring! With sunshine on thy back, and dew upon thy wing, Sweetest bird of all the year, How I love to see thee here, And thy choristers to hear, As they sing. Oh happy time, happy time! When buds of hawthorn burst, and honeysuckles climb, And the maidens of the May, Hear the sweet bells as they play, And make out what they say In their chime. Oh jolly hours, jolly hours! Of young and happy hearts, in gay and pleasant bowers, Could I my spring recall, I'd be merrier than all; But my year is in the fall Of the flowers. Still, I feel there comes a day Far brighter, than e'er shone upon this round of clay, When life with swallow's wing Shall find another spring, And my spirit yet shall sing, In the ray.