Ursus, alas! had boasted that he had never wept. His reservoir of tears

was full. Such plentitude as is accumulated drop on drop, sorrow on

sorrow, through a long existence, is not to be poured out in a moment.

Ursus wept alone.

The first tear is a letting out of waters. He wept for Gwynplaine, for

Dea, for himself, Ursus, for Homo. He wept like a child. He wept like an

old man. He wept for everything at which he had ever laughed. He paid

off arrears. Man is never nonsuited when he pleads his right to tears.

The corpse they had just buried was Hardquanonne's; but Ursus could not

know that.

The hours crept on.

Day began to break. The pale clothing of the morning was spread out,

dimly creased with shadow, over the bowling-green. The dawn lighted up

the front of the Tadcaster Inn. Master Nicless had not gone to bed,

because sometimes the same occurrence produces sleeplessness in many.

Troubles radiate in every direction. Throw a stone in the water, and

count the splashes.

Master Nicless felt himself impeached. It is very disagreeable that such

things should happen in one's house. Master Nicless, uneasy, and

foreseeing misfortunes, meditated. He regretted having received such

people into his house. Had he but known that they would end by getting

720

The Man Who Laughs