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And now—Dear! Dear! The dayspring from on high hath visited me. “I have a message from your sister. Down on your marrow-bones, sirrah! Confess your guilt, and Sir Rowland may yet save you from the gallows. “You, anyhow, don’t deserve it,” he said. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. She has an excellent remedy for a sprain.
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