As men did in
those days, and as many would do now, he might have taken thankfully
such fortune as he found in his path, not inquiring too closely whether
he had deserved it or not. But yet he hesitated, and then, turning the
thing over, he saw on the seal the device of the Abbot of Sheering, and
he thanked Heaven for such a friend. And again, as living much alone
made him more prone to self-questioning, he asked himself whether he
had ever loved Beatrix at all. He heard men talk of love, he heard men
sing the love-songs of a passionate and earnest age, and it seemed to
him that he could nowhere find in his heart or soul the chords that
should answer directly to that music. In him the memory was a treasure
rather than a power; and while he loved to dream himself again through
the pleasant passages of youth, calling up the kind and girlish face
that was always near him in shadow-land, and although the image came,
and he heard the voice and could almost fancy that he touched the
little hand, yet it was all soft rather than vivid, it was full of
tenderness rather than of a cruel and insatiate longing, it was a
satisfaction rather than a desire. And therefore, though the mere name
of Beatrix had been enough to bring him back from Rome, and though he
had asked many questions in the hope of seeing her, he attempted
nothing daring in order to be assured of the truth.
Then came the final preparations, the testing of armour, the providing
of small things necessary on the march, the renewal of saddle and
bridle, and all the hundred details which every knight and soldier in
those days understood and cared for himself.
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