His son’s cheek grew a darker crimson still.
“The lady, sir,” he murmured, “the lady I wrote of—”
Mistress Rockhurst snorted with increased indignation, but Lord Rockhurst was now smiling dreamily.
“A lady! sayst thou?… Boy Harry and his lady! Nay, then, a petticoat is like charity and must needs cover a multitude of sins!”
“Petticoats, indeed,” ejaculated under her voice the irate dame—“The hussy!”
Lord Rockhurst had no thought to spare for his sister’s opinions just now. Holding Harry at arm’s length, he surveyed him with shining eyes.
“Thou art grown a goodly lad. In faith, well-nigh a man!”
He drew him into his embrace and held him close a second. Then, releasing him, fell back with a sigh of ease upon the bench; flung off his mantle and unbuckled his sword, both of which Harry respectfully received from his hand.
The traveller sighed, took off his hat, and ran his fingers through his hair with the gesture of contented weariness.