High o'er the eastern steep the sun is beaming,
And darkness flies with her deceitful shadows;--
So truth prevails o'er falsehood.
--OLD PLAY.

As Tressilian rode along the bridge, lately the scene of so much riotous
sport, he could not but observe that men's countenances had singularly
changed during the space of his brief absence. The mock fight was over,
but the men, still habited in their masking suits, stood together in
groups, like the inhabitants of a city who have been just startled by
some strange and alarming news.

When he reached the base-court, appearances were the same--domestics,
retainers, and under-officers stood together and whispered, bending
their eyes towards the windows of the Great Hall, with looks which
seemed at once alarmed and mysterious.

Sir Nicholas Blount was the first person of his own particular
acquaintance Tressilian saw, who left him no time to make inquiries, but
greeted him with, "God help thy heart, Tressilian! thou art fitter for a
clown than a courtier thou canst not attend, as becomes one who follows
her Majesty. Here you are called for, wished for, waited for--no man but
you will serve the turn; and hither you come with a misbegotten brat on
thy horse's neck, as if thou wert dry nurse to some sucking devil, and
wert just returned from airing."

"Why, what is the matter?" said Tressilian, letting go the boy, who
sprung to ground like a feather, and himself dismounting at the same
time.