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The denuded grub recks nothing of the lost overcoat; its obliging intestine repairs the disaster without delay.
For now Dido recks not of eye or tongue, nor sets her heart on love in secret: she calls it marriage, and with this name veils her fall.
It is at once too dull and too indolent to recognise character or even to look for it; it recks nothing of early development or late; it measures young humanity for its class-rooms like a tailor, with the yard measure. The discipline of boy over boy is, as might be expected, brutal or bestial. The school-yard is taken for the world in small, and so allowed to be.
They say the good bishop hath called him to order, but what recks he of bishops? Good-day, Brother Bulpett, here be two young kinsmen of Master Birkenholt to visit him; and so benedicite, fair sirs. Saint Austin's grace be with you!"
The apple may be hanging on the topmost bough, but the boy who is apple-hungry recks not of height nor of the labyrinth of hostile branches. He gets the apple. As some one has said, "The soul reaches out for the cloak that fits it."
He said half reprovingly, half freakishly, "It would not be well for you to anger him. He is the page of Canute himself, a real Wandering Wolf, and recks not whom he attacks. He came near to spitting Oslac at the battle, and even threatened me." "Oslac!" screamed one of the serving-maids, turning very red. "The murderous little fiend!" "He deserves to have his neck wrung!" two more cried out.
I will not go into the moral aspect of the affair. A great love recks not of moral aspects. Sufficient to say, they were ideally happy while the beautiful dancer lived. She died when the boy was about fifteen, to his great and abiding grief.
The piles rest in stately silence, and the reputations of the authors are entombed. As for the fighters who sought the bubble reputation even at the cannon's mouth, who recks of their fierce struggles, their bitter wounds, their brief success? Who knows the leaders of the superb host that poured like a torrent from Torres Vedras to the Pyrenees, and smote Napoleon to the earth?
Thus he spake outright; but the other with rolling eyes glared on him, like to a lion struck by a javelin when hunters in the mountains are hemming him round, and, though pressed by the throng, he recks no more of them, but keeps his eyes fixed, singling out that man only who struck him first and slew him not.
He recks no more of woman's love, His city now he bids farewell, And swears he will no more return Nor in Granada seek to dwell. A stout and valorous gentleman, Granada knew his worth, And rich with many a spoil of love, Went Abenamar forth. Upon his bonnet, richly dyed, He bore a lettered scroll, It ran, "'Tis only love that makes The solace of my soul."
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