And off waddled the Port Admiral.
“You have seen good King Henry, then, father?” said Amyas, interested.
The old man's eyes lighted at once, and he stopped mumbling his sugar.
“Seed mun? Iss, I reckon. I was with Captain Will when he went to meet the Frenchman there to Calais—at the Field, the Field—”
“The Field of the Cloth of Gold, gramfer,” suggested the dame.
“That's it. Seed mun? Iss, fegs. Oh, he was a king! The face o' mun like a rising sun, and the back o' mun so broad as that there” (and he held out his palsied arms), “and the voice of mun! Oh, to hear mun swear if he was merry, oh, 'tas royal!—Seed mun? Iss, fegs! And I've seed mun do what few has; I've seed mun christle like any child.”
“What—cry?” said Amyas. “I shouldn't have thought there was much cry in him.”
“You think what you like—”
“Gramfer, gramfer, don't you be rude, now—
“Let him go on,” said Amyas.