“Oh, thanks, my lord, O felix dies.”
“See how he takes to Latin, like a duck to the water.
“Hubert, thou must go with him.”
Hubert’s countenance fell.
“Oh no, no, my lord, I want to be a soldier like my father; please don’t send me away.
“Oh, Martin, what a fool thou art!”
“Fool! fie! for shame! thou forgettest in whose company thou art. Each to his own liking; thou to make food for the sword, Martin perhaps to suffer martyrdom on a gridiron, like Saint Lawrence, amongst the heathen.”
“He is the stuff they make martyrs from,” muttered he of Warwick.
“No, Hubert, you may stay and work out your own destiny, and Martin shall go to Oxford.”
“Oh, Martin, I am so sorry.”