“Yet surely he knew how men would account of him?”
“I misdoubt if he cared for that, any more than I do, Jack Enville.”
“Nor is thy mother any more than a parson’s daughter.”
“My father, and my mother’s father,” said Arthur, his eyes flashing, “were all but martyrs; for it was only the death of Queen Mary that saved either from the martyr’s stake. That is my lineage, Jack Enville,—higher than Courtenay of Powderham.”
“Thou must be clean wood, Arthur!” said Jack, laughing. “Why, there were poor chapmen and sely (simple) serving-maids among them that were burnt in Queen Mary’s days; weavers, bricklayers, and all manner of common folk. There were rare few of any sort.” (Of any consequence.)
“They be kings now, whatso they were,” answered Arthur.
“There was a bishop or twain, Jack, if I mistake not,” put in Basset, yawning; “and a Primate of all England, without I dreamed it.”
“Go to, Jack!” pursued Arthur. “I can tell thee of divers craftsmen that were very common folk—one Peter, a fisherman, and one Paul, a tent-maker, and an handful belike—whose names shall ring down all the ages, long after men have forgotten that there ever were Courtenays or Envilles. I set the matter on thine own ground to say this.”
“Stand and deliver, Jack Enville! That last word hath worsted thee,” said Basset.
“I am not an orator,” returned Jack, loftily. “I am a gentleman.”