The man’s companions burst into a hoarse fit of laughter, and the boy flushed angrily.
“Well,” he said haughtily, “it leads up to Cliff Castle, and no farther.”
“That’s far enough for us, my game chicken. Is that heap of blocks of stone on the top there the castle?”
“Yes! What do you want?”
The man looked the lad up and down, rolled one of his eyes, which looked something like that of a lobster, and then winked the lid over the inflated orb, and said:
“Gentlemen on an ambassage don’t read their despatches to every springald they see by the roadside. Here, jump up, and show us the way, and I’ll ask Sir Morton Darley to give you a stoup of wine for your trouble, or milk and water.”
“You ask Sir Morton to give you wine!” cried the lad angrily. “Why, who are you, to dare such a thing?”
“What!” roared the man. “Dare? Who talks to Captain Purlrose, his Highness’s trusted soldier, about dare?” and he put on a tremendously fierce look, blew out his cheeks, drew his brows over his eyes, and slapped his sword-hilt heavily, as if to keep it in its sheath, for fear it should leap out and kill the lad, adding, directly after, in a hoarse whisper: “Lie still, good sword, lie still.”
All this theatrical display was evidently meant to awe the lad, but instead of doing so, it made him angry, for he flushed up, and said quickly:
“I dare,” and the men laughed.