“I trust so. But how do you know the Roylands are a fighting family?”
“All Englishmen fight, more or less,” answered Justinian carelessly; “besides your name is a Norman one, and descendants of William the Conqueror’s vassals are always soldiers. Hitherto you have led a quiet and peaceful life, but if we do have an island war, I don’t think you will be the last to help me defend my kingdom.”
“You can rely on that—nor Crispin either!”
“Oh, Crispin!” replied Justinian, a trifle disdainfully; “he is too much a man of peace to suit my fancy. But here we are at the village.”
“By the way, how did you populate this new Rome of yours?”
“Oh, in the old days I was rather a celebrity in the islands,—a kind of insular Lord Byron,—and of course had my followers. When I settled here, I made all my followers come also, and admitted none but young men. They brought their sweethearts and wives, so gradually the community grew up here. Recruits come from time to time, but I admit none but those who are physically perfect and passably moral. We now number, with women and children, two hundred souls, and you will not find a deformed or lame person among the lot.”
“Then you have no old people?”
“Oh yes. I am old myself, and many of my followers are of the same age. We were all young men in those days of colonization, but now age has come upon us, as you see. Some of my old comrades have died, but many are well and hearty, thanks to the salubrity of this climate. They are the sages of the village.”
“Local rulers, I suppose?”
“No,” retorted Justinian, with fiery earnestness; “there is only one ruler in Melnos—myself.”