THE CHRONICLE OF CLEMENDY
his native castle, with very few nobles in his pocket, and not too much victual or drink in his stomach, wandering on this fine July morrow through the wet glades of Wentwood Chase. For it had rained without ceasing a whole week, and even now the great white clouds were slowly rolling away to westward like tall ships in full sail, and leaving behind them a deep blue firmament and a hot sun, which made everything smoke and steam. You will suppose perhaps that the warmth and light and pleasant air caused the exile to cheer up and sing snatches of ballads and rondels; but I assure you it was not so. For what good is an azure heaven to a man when his heart is shrouded in sable and thick darkness; or do you think a joyous dancing air that sets the boughs a-tremble and the fairy-bells a-chiming can rejoice him whose soul is driven across a wilderness of sorrow without hope? Nay these things do but increase our grief (unless we be thoroughly indoctrinated and inebriated with the subtlest and mellowest knowledge of Siluria) and only made Sir Symon regret with sharper anguish the misfortune that had reft him from the bluer sky of his own country. But as it happened he was one of those persons who are well taken care of, and somehow or other, set upon their legs. People fortunate in the same way declare the cause to be a keen wit and a skill in untying tangles; others who are poor all their days and leave no money for wax tapers or masses, say it's all luck and impudence. I don't pretend to decide which of the two opinions be the verity; and I really don't think
[ 305 ]
