things over, and decided to follow your wise advice. If I am to be Lord Chancellor, ’tis time I gave more heed to my books.”

“Tut, tut!” says he, still more peevish, for his toe began to tweak him again. “Since morning, lad, a good many things have happened. We must needs deny ourselves for the king’s sake, and ’tis my wish that you should assist our neighbours in keeping Pomfret Castle for His Majesty. Say no more on’t: Sir Jarvis, fill your glass.”

“I doubt the prospect of war has little charm for thee, Master Dick,” says Sir Jarvis, eying me in a fashion I had no liking for.

“I am not a soldier,” says I, putting as much ill-humour into my voice as I could, for I was playing a part, and wished to do it well. “And I am not minded to engage in brawls——”

“Brawls!” he cries. “’Sdeath, lad, thou hadst best not use that word before one of His Majesty’s officers! Brawls, quotha! Why, boy——”

“Fie on thee, Dick!” says my uncle. “Fie! Brawls, indeed! Why, ’tis the most righteous of quarrels into which His Majesty hath entered. Say no more, Sir Jarvis; the lad hath been bred to papers and books, but he will fight well enough, I warrant you, when he is once shown the trick of the thing. I wish I had had thee trained in fence, Dick; but I never thought there would be occasion for thy use of it. Sir Jarvis, help yourself to the bottle. Nay, man, be not sparing—who knows what there may not be in store of hard work to-morrow? If it were not for this plaguey gout of mine, I would help you more freely; but, i’faith, friend, I am in sore pain, and will ask your leave to go to my bed. Dick, play the host to Sir Jarvis, boy. Spare not the Tokay, Sir Jarvis—Gregory will serve you.”

Now, when Gregory and Barbara between them had helped my uncle to his own chamber, Sir Jarvis and I sat before the fire, not over lively companions. He smoked his tobacco, and from time to time refilled his glass, and now and then he cast sidelong glances at me, who watched him out of my eye-corners.

“Thou art not too fond of the king, then, Master Dick?” says he at last, glancing at me.

“Sir,” says I; “I know no reason why I should discuss His Majesty with you or any man.”

“Aye,” says he; “I have heard that answer before, and know what it means, lad. Faith, you may deceive the old knight upstairs, but not the one that sits with you down below. I have heard there is disaffection amongst some of you young Oxford sparks—aye, I heard it a six-month since.”

“’Tis a matter of complete indifference to me, sir,” I says, as cool as I could.

“’Od’s body, lad!” he exclaims with a sudden fervour. “Thou art prettily unconcerned about these things, but if I met an enemy to the king I would run him through as soon as look at him!”

“Would you, sir?” says I.

“Aye, would I!” says he. “Were he my brother, aye, or father, I would, Master Dick.”

I laid hands on the flask and poured myself out a glassful.

“Here’s your health, sir,” I says, bowing to him.

“I never thought to find thee disaffected,” says he, taking no heed of my compliment.

“Have you done so, sir?” I asks him.

He favoured me with a hard look.

“Faith!” he says, half muttering to himself, “I don’t find much enthusiasm in you.”

“You forget, sir,” I answers, “that I am to be a lawyer. ’Tis not my trade to show my feelings, but rather to conceal them.”

“Be damned to your feelings!” he raps out. “’Slife, man, there are half the lads in England shouting for one side or t’other to-night, instead o’ sitting as you do with a face as long as those parchments you pour over.”

“I am quite agreeable, sir,” says I. “Let them shout—I suppose I have a right to preserve my voice for the courts of law.”

“Oh, preserve it!” he answers.

“Will you take some more wine, sir?” I says very polite, and pushing the flask towards him.

He stared at me from under his bushy eyebrows and laid his pipe on the table.

“No!” he says. He rose and stretched himself on the hearth, his big body seeming to eclipse the leaping flames. “I’ll to bed,” he says. “Good-night—and more spunk to you. Master Richard,” and he strode across the hall to the door.

I jumped up at that.

“By God!” says I, a sudden passion raging within me. “If occasion should ever serve, Sir Jarvis, you shall see what spunk I have!”

With his hand on the door he turned and looked long at me, as I leaned forward over the table staring straight into his eyes.

“Aha!” says he at last. “I see how it is—egad, Dick, I thought it strange if I could not draw thee! Well—well—as I said before, ’twill be house against house, and brother against brother, aye, and son against father. Good-night to thee, Dick.” He swung through the door and left it open. I heard his heavy tread on the kitchen flags, and then the clank of his sword’s heel as it caught each stair. I stood there in the same attitude until all was still again. The fire crackled behind me. I suddenly bethought me of the letter which Matthew Richardson had sent me, and ran out to the kitchen hearth, half afraid that some scrap of it might have escaped the flames. The fire had smouldered away; it was all dead ashes; and before it sat Jasper, his hands folded across his stomach, fast asleep.

IV.

When I came into the hall next morning it was later than my usual hour for appearing before my uncle. I had slept ill during the first part of the night, and kept my bed late in consequence. During the night the weather had changed, and the sun was now shining brightly across the meadows and the garden outside our windows. My uncle, evidently relieved of his pain to some extent, sat at the table, breaking his fast, but there was no sign of Sir Jarvis Cutler.

“Thou art late, Dick,” says my uncle as I made my obeisance to him, “and Sir Jarvis is well on his way to Pomfret if a’ be not there already. In these times, lad, one must stir one’s self and be up and about.”

“I trust that your pain is relieved, sir,” says I, feeling glad that our guest had departed.

“Why,” he answers, stifling a groan, “’tis certainly somewhat abated, nephew, and I have made shift to walk with a stick from my own chamber. In these days”—this time the groan came in spite of his rare fortitude—“a man must not think as much of his own ills and aches as of his Majesty’s necessities. It behoves me, Sir Nicholas Coope, knighted by His Majesty’s father, to do my duty, nephew Dick—even as it behoves thee to do thine.”

“I trust, sir,” says I, “that you will not find me wanting in my duty to you.”

“I’ve no doubt of that, boy,” says he, with a keen look at me, “but I wish thou wouldst show a little more enthusiasm for the good cause. ’Od’s body, mightst ha’ been a crop-eared Anabaptist last night, by thy long face, instead of a Royalist gentleman!”

“Why, sir,” I rejoins, “to my mind there is no occasion for rejoicing at the prospect before us. It seems to me time for weeping and mourning rather than laughing and carousing. I see no pleasure in watching Englishmen slay Englishmen.”

“Thou art a curious dull dog, Dick,” says my uncle, giving me a queer look. “’Sdeath, man—why, when I was thy age it would have rejoiced me to see prospect of a broken head or two. But this is neither here nor there when there’s business to