"
Such were the discourses of that morning, now on poetry and book
lore; now admiration of the carvings that decked the room; now talk
on grand architectural designs, or improvements in fire-arms, or the
discussion of hunting adventures. There seemed nothing in art, life,
or learning in which the versatile mind of Theurdank was not at home,
or that did not end in some strange personal reminiscence of his own.
All was so kind, so gracious, and brilliant, that at first the
interview was full of wondering delight to Ebbo, but latterly it
became very fatiguing from the strain of attention, above all towards
a guest who evidently knew that he was known, while not permitting
such recognition to be avowed. Ebbo began to long for an
interruption, but, though he could see by the lightened sky that the
weather had cleared up, it would have been impossible to have
suggested to any guest that the way might now probably be open, and
more especially to such a guest as this. Considerate as his visitor
had been the night before, the pleasure of talk seemed to have done
away with the remembrance of his host's weakness, till Ebbo so
flagged that at last he was scarcely alive to more than the continued
sound of the voice, and all the pain that for a while had been in
abeyance seemed to have mastered him; but his guest, half reading his
books, half discoursing, seemed too much immersed in his own plans,
theories, and adventures, to mark the condition of his auditor.
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