"O you bad man, you have spoiled my fun!" cried little Roger. "I had nearly won the battle.—Come along then, Lolly, we will make an end at after. Draw off the troops—right about face! March!"
A smile broke over the somewhat weary face of the Viceroy, when, two minutes later, his little son came marching into the hall, shouldering his toy spear, and followed by Lawrence, who carried a long stick in a manner similar as to position, but dissimilar as to the appearance of interest. At the edge of the dalts Lawrence dropped his stick, made a low bow to his master, and retreated among the household beneath. Roger bounded on the daïs, kissed his father's hand, and squatted himself down—for half a minute—on a hassock at the Earl's feet. The father's hand lingered tenderly among the fair curls on the boy's head.
"Little Roger," he said, "I have somewhat to tell thee."
"Is it a battle?" exclaimed Roger eagerly.
His father laughed. "Of a truth, thou art cut out for a soldier, my lad. Nay, 'tis not a battle; it is a journey."
"Shall I take a journey?"
"Not yet a while. Perchance, some day. But what sayest? Canst do without me for a month or twain?"
"Whither go you, my Lord?"
"I set forth for Cork this next Wednesday."
"Where's Cork?"