“Why, so thou shalt!” said Hob Trueman, with a laugh. “Eat good beef, and drink good ale, and grow up a lusty yeoman. The king’s a good master, I have nought to say against him—saving that he is somewhat over strict,” he added, with qualifying remembrance. “We should be near by this time—”
That night, before lying down in the wooden crib which served for bed, Stephen Bassett called his boy.
“Hugh, thou hast not forgotten thy promise,” he said anxiously.
“No, father;” in a low voice.
“Fight for the king thou must, or be ready to fight. That is the law for all Englishmen. Does not that content thee?”
Silence. Then—“I should like to be near him, to be one of the men-at-arms.”
Bassett sighed.
“I cannot yield to thee, Hugh.”
“No, father.”
“And I have no breath for talking to-night. We will speak of it again.”