“Praise to my face isn’t open disgrace,” said the gentleman, “it is a pleasant novelty in these walls.”
“Is it your birthday or anything?” Edred asked.
“It is not my birthday,” said the gentleman smiling. “But why the question?”
“Because you’re so grand,” said Edred. “I suppose you’re a prince then?”
“No, not a prince—a prisoner.”
“Oh, I see,” said Edred, as people so often do when they don’t; “and you’re going to be let out to-day, and you’ve put on your best things to go home in. I am so glad. At least, I’m sorry you’re going, but I’m glad on your account.”
“Thou’rt a fine, bold boy,” said the gentleman. “But no. I am a prisoner, and like to remain so. And for these gauds,” he swelled out his chest so that his diamond buttons and ruby earrings and gem-set collar flashed in the winter sun,—“for these gauds, never shall it be said that Walter Raleigh let the shadow of his prison tarnish his pride in the proper arraying of a body that has been honoured to kneel before the Virgin Queen.” He took off his hat at the last words and swept it, with a flourish, nearly to the ground.
“Oh!” cried Edred, “are you really Sir Walter Raleigh? Oh, how splendid! And now you’ll tell me all about the golden South Americas, and sea-fights, and the Armada and the Spaniards, and what you used to play at when you were a little boy.”
“Ay,” said Sir Walter, “I’ll tell thee tales enow. They’ll not let me from speaking with thee, I warrant. I would,” he said, looking round impatiently, “that I could see the river again. From my late chamber I saw it, and the goodly ships coming in and out—the ships that go down into the great waters.” He sighed, was silent a moment, then spoke. “And so thou didst not know thine old friend Raleigh? He was all forgot, all forgot! And yet thou hast rid astride my sword ere now, and I have played with thee in the courtyard at Arden. When England forgets so soon, who can expect more from a child?”
“I’m sorry,” said Edred humbly.