There was a pause for a moment, when a half-suppressed buzz, in which the Queen herself joined, broke from every one present.
“Now, God be thanked!” the Queen then cried, in a fervent tone. “Where is my Lord Admiral’s report?”
“His Lordship was so eager to advertise your Highness of the victory,” answered Hildebrand, “that he deferred writing thereon, and sends his report by word of mouth. Sixteen ships of the enemy have been captured, eight blown into the air, and five, after a hard struggle, dismasted and sunk. The remainder have been dispersed.”
“’Tis a victory without parallel!” said the Queen. “What is thy name?”
“Hildebrand Clifford, my liege.”
“Ah!” cried the Queen. “We have had a good report of thee afore, and owe thee a meed. Give us thy sword, Sir!”
Hildebrand, still kneeling, drew forth his sword, and, with a low bow, placed it in the Queen’s hand. As she caught its hilt, the Queen raised it in the air, and slapped it lustily on his shoulder.
“In the name of God, rise up, Sir Hildebrand Clifford, knight!” she exclaimed.
Hildebrand, though without being elated—for he had now no savour of earthly distinctions—received back his sword, and sprang to his feet.
“I thank your Highness?” he said.