The princess took the epistle and began:
“How nice it smells, all scented! The paper is gilt-edged, too.”
“Luxurious beggar, whoever he is,” said Ricardo.
“Well, he says: ‘Prins and dear Cousin,—You and me’ (oh, what grammar!) ‘are much the same age, I being fifteen next birthday, and we should be better ackwainted. All the wurld has herd of the fame of Prins Ricardo, whose name is feerd, and his sord dreded, wherever there are Monsters and Tirants. Prins, you
may be less well informed about my situation. I have not killed any Dragguns, there being nun of them here; but I have been under fiar, at Gaeta.’ Where’s Gaeta, Dick?”
“Never heard of it,” said Ricardo.
“Well, it is in Italy, and it was besieged lately. He goes on: ‘and I am told that I did not misbehave myself, nor disgrace the blud of Bruce.’”
“I’ve heard of Robert Bruce,” said Dick; “he was the man who did not kill the spider, but he cracked the head of Sir Harry Bohun with one whack of his axe. I remember him well enough.”
“Well, your correspondent seems to be a descendant of his.”
“That’s getting more interesting,” said Dick. “I wish my father would go to war with somebody. With the Sword of Sharpness I’d make the enemy whistle! Drive on, Jack.”