In Honour's Cause: A Tale of the Days of George the First

“Ha—ha—ha—ha!”
A regular ringing, hearty, merry laugh—just such an outburst of mirth as a strong, healthy boy of sixteen, in the full, bright, happy time of youth, and without a trouble on his mind, can give vent to when he sees something that thoroughly tickles his fancy.
Just at the same time the heavy London clouds which had been hanging all the morning over the Park opened a little to show the blue sky, and a broad ray of sunshine struck in through the anteroom window and lit up the gloomy, handsome chamber.
Between them—the laugh and the sunshine—they completely transformed the place, as the lad who laughed threw himself into a chair, and then jumped up again in a hurry to make sure that he had not snapped in two the sword he wore in awkward fashion behind him.
The lad’s companion, who seemed to be about a couple of years older, faced round suddenly from the other end of the room, glanced sharply at one of the doors, and then said hurriedly:
“I say, you mustn’t laugh like that here.”
“It isn’t broken,” said he who had helped to make the solemn place look more cheerful.
“What, your sword? Lucky for you. I told you to take care how you carried it. Easy enough when you are used to one.”
The speaker laid his left hand lightly on the hilt of his own, pressed it down a little, and stood in a stiff, deportment-taught attitude, as if asking the other to study him as a model.
“But you mustn’t burst out into guffaws like that in the Palace.”
“Seems as if you mustn’t do anything you like here,” said the younger lad. “Wish I was back at Winchester.”