“Would I had made a hole in his heart that night in Lark Lane!” cried Sir Percy next.
“Sir Robin’s nimble, Sir, and knows a trick or two with steel, as well as dice.”
“Aye: a gallant every inch; ’tis for that I hate him all the more; and yet, Ken, sometimes, lad, when I’ve been a-staring at him from afar, I’ve caught something in his countenance resembling Peg, and it’s that’s made me halt like a chit at provoking of him further.”
Kennaston nods. “Aye: I’ve remarked it; but held my peace, Percy, for ’tis said man and wife often grow to look alike, and I doubt not, sometimes begin after the same pattern.”
Sir Percy sighs again: turns up the room with drooped lids; in silence getting that grip upon his soul which noblest natures insist on with themselves, even in crises like his. ’Tis a bitter battle, closer fought and quicker, too, than any won or lost with swords and guns. The struggle’s writ upon his face as he goes; but when he comes his victory’s writ there too.
“Kennaston,” says he, very quiet and off-hand, “I’m thinking I’ll go to the Colonies, to Virginia.”
“What! no!” ejaculates the poet, placing a hand on either of his friend’s shoulders.
“Yes, Ken, dear lad, I could not live in England without her; perhaps yonder, over the sea, in the new land that’s growing up, I may learn to lead a new, better life, just for her sake that’s lost to me forever. At the least I can strive, at such a distance, to serve my country and my King like a man—until the end I’ll pray for comes.”
Kennaston turns off, with tears in his eyes.
“Mostly,” says he brokenly, “were not Peggy my twin, I’d be in a ripe mood for a-cursing of her! When, Percy?” asks he, after a pause.