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Another Robert was count of Flanders, a royal province, which, in this century, gave three queens to the thrones of France, England, and Denmark: he was surnamed the Sword and Lance of the Christians; but in the exploits of a soldier he sometimes forgot the duties of a general.
Then a clock struck and the warder gave a curt order. "Time, Gurn! We must go back," and he conducted the unresisting prisoner up the three flights of stairs that led to the division in which his cell was. "By the way," he remarked as they went, "I forgot to tell you that you and I have got to part." "Oh?" said Gurn. "Am I to be transferred to another prison?" "No, it's I who am going.
It was a melancholy sight; and, for a moment, I forgot the horrid acts of piracy and cruel murders of these people, and my heart relented at what I had done it was but for a few minutes.
The little fellow seemed so extremely polite, and so anxious to "do the genteel attention," that the Captain entirely forgot the tenor of his conversation with the pilot, while his feelings changed with the prospect of such respectful attention; and yet he seemed at a loss how to analyze the peculiar character of his little, pedantic friend.
"I am so ashamed that I forgot it; and you're very kind to trust me, when I'm such a perfect stranger to you. Don't people ever cheat you?" "Sometimes," replied the ferryman; "and I don't trust everybody. I go a good deal by people's faces."
This was another of the many forms of intoxication to which circumstances subjected the poor lover. In Fallow field, among impertinent young men, Evan's pride proclaimed him a tailor. At Beckley Court, acted on by one genuine soul, he forgot it, and felt elate in his manhood. The shades of Tailordom dispersed like fog before the full South-west breeze.
He had spoken faster and freer and longer than he had thought of; the feeling that he had in him about this thing, and the interest he had in Marion Kent, all rushed to words together, so that he almost forgot that Marion Kent in bodily presence stood listening before him, he was dealing so much more with his abstract thought of her, and his notion of real womanhood.
For Shakespeare's sake, then, the Boar's Head is elect into that small circle of inns which are immortal in the annals of literature. But, like Chaucer's Tabard, no stone of it is left. Boswell made a mistake, and so did Goldsmith after him, in thinking that the Boar's Head of the eighteenth century was the Boar's Head of Shakespeare's day. They both forgot the great Fire of London.
After a few instructions, the happy girl went swiftly away, but ere she had moved far, she returned, and paused before Vincent. "I forgot to ask you about that poor man, Jarima," she said, gravely. "He did not live long, senora, after he was brought here." "And his wife children?" "Of them I know nothing," he answered quietly.
He was fond of a pinch when it occurred to him, but he usually forgot that this indulgence was at his command. His wife held down her knitting and looked attentive. "Why, that Rigg, or Rigg Featherstone, was one. But Bulstrode was before him, so I'm going to do it for Bulstrode. Whether it's mortgage or purchase they're going for, I can't tell yet."
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