Outside they halt. Drogo kneels in front of the gateway, the keys of his castle in his hand.
The guard opens, and the king dismounts from his horse, somewhat stiffly, as if weary with riding, and receives the keys from the extended hand with a sweet smile and a few kind words.
Let us gaze on the features of that king of old; gray haired, prematurely gray; the eyebrows unlike in their curvature, giving a quaint expression to the face, a mild and good-tempered face, but somewhat deficient in character, forming the strongest contrast to that tall commanding figure on his right hand, with the stern and manly features, the greatest of the Edwards—a born king of men.
“Rise up, Sir Drogo, thou worthy knight.”
“My liege, the honour of knighthood is not yet mine own.”
“Ah, and yet so loyal!”
“For that reason, sire, not yet a knight; I was a page at Kenilworth, and was expelled for my loyalty to my king, because I could not restrain my indignation at the aspersions and misrepresentations I daily heard.”
“Ah, indeed,” said the king, “then shalt thou receive the honour from my own hands,” and he gave him a slight blow with the flat of the sword, which he then laid upon the reverently inclined head, and added, “Rise up, Sir Drogo of Walderne.”
“Methinks knighthood is too sacred to be thus hastily bestowed,” muttered Prince Edward.
“Nay, my son, we have few loyal servants in the Andredsweald, and those who honour us will we honour {[32]}.”