Love is dead, infected
With plague of deep disdain--'"

sang Sedley with throbbing sweetness, depth of melancholy passion. The
listener's spirit left its chafing, left pride and disdain, and drifted
on that melodious tide to far heavens.

"'Weep, neighbors, weep; do you not hear it said
That Love is dead?
His death-bed peacock's folly;
His winding sheet is shame;
His will false-seeming wholly;
His sole executor blame!'"

rang Sedley's splendid voice. The song ended; the sun sank; on came the
invader night. Ferne took the lute and slowly swept its strings.

"How much, how little of it all is peacock's folly," he said; "who
knoweth? Life and Living, Love and Hate, and Honor the bubble, and Shame
the Nessus-robe, and Death, which, when all's done, may have no answer
to the riddle!--Where is the fixed star, and who knoweth depth from
shallow, or himself, or anything?" He struck the lute again, drawing
from it a lingering and mournful note.

"Now out upon the man who brought melancholy into fashion!" ejaculated
Arden. "In danger the blithest soul alive, when all is well you do ask
yourself too many questions! I'll go companion with Robert Baldry, who
keeps no fashions save of Mars's devising."

"Why, I am not sad," said Ferne, rousing himself. "Come, I'll dice with