The lad’s companion, who seemed to be about a couple of years older, faced round suddenly from the other end of the room, glanced sharply at one of the doors, and then said hurriedly:
“I say, you mustn’t laugh like that here.”
“It isn’t broken,” said he who had helped to make the solemn place look more cheerful.
“What, your sword? Lucky for you. I told you to take care how you carried it. Easy enough when you are used to one.”
The speaker laid his left hand lightly on the hilt of his own, pressed it down a little, and stood in a stiff, deportment-taught attitude, as if asking the other to study him as a model.
“But you mustn’t burst out into guffaws like that in the Palace.”
“Seems as if you mustn’t do anything you like here,” said the younger lad. “Wish I was back at Winchester.”
“Pooh, schoolboy! I shall have enough to do before I make anything of you.”
“You never will. I’m sick of it already: no games, no runs down by the river or over the fields; nothing to do but dress up in these things, and stand like an image all day. I feel just like a pet monkey in a cage.”
“And look it,” said the other contemptuously.