“Pray him to come hither,” said the King; “and lead him carefully. Thou, Joan, hadst better seek thy mother and sister.”
“O sweet father,” cried Joan, “don’t order me off. This can be no state business. Prithee let me hear it.”
“That must be as my guest pleases, Joan,” he answered; “and thou must be very discreet, or we shall have him reproaching me for trying to rule the realm when I cannot rule my own house.”
“Father, I verily think you are afraid of that beggar! I am sure he is as mysterious as the Queen of the Dew-drops!” cried the mischievous girl.
The curtain over the doorway was drawn back, and the beggar was led into the chamber. The King advanced to meet him, and took his hand to lead him to a seat. “Good morrow to thee,” he said; “cousin, I am glad thou art come at last to see me.”
“Thanks, my Lord,” said the beggar, with more of courtly tone than when they had met before, and yet Joan thought she had never seen her father addressed so much as an equal; “are any here present with you?”
“Only my wilful little crusading daughter, Joan,” said Edward, beckoning to her, and putting her proud reluctant fingers into the hand of the beggar, who bent and raised them to his lips—as the fashion then was—while the maiden reddened and looked to her father, but saw him only smiling; “she shall leave us,” he added, “if thy matters are for my private ear. In what can I aid thee?”
“In this matter of daughters,” answered the beggar; “not that I need aid of yours, but counsel. I would know if the heir of old Reginald Mohun—John, I think they call him—be a worthy mate for my wench.”
Joan had in the meantime placed herself between her father’s knees, where she stood regarding this wonderful beggar with the most unmitigated astonishment.
“John of Dunster!” said the King, stroking down Joan’s hair, “thou knowst his lineage as well as I, cousin.”