“Oh, don’t speak of it,” replied Francis, laughing. “I was not surprised.”
“You amaze me, sir!” cried the King.
“Indeed, Sire? Why, we always knew in France that there is nothing an Englishman loves better than to fight. I came to your gates unannounced, and two or three of your bluff soldiers—officers, you say—exclaimed amongst themselves, ‘What does this Frenchman here, trying to enter our master’s court?’ As your defenders, they drew, to try and drive us away. But we would not be driven. Then your gallant escort arrived. They found out the mistake, and it was all at an end. I congratulate you, my—” Francis coughed, as if to get rid of an impediment in his speech, or as if he were suffering from some forgetfulness of the English words he ought to use—“my noble English sovereign, upon having such brave defenders at your gates.”
“I thank you, sir,” cried Henry. “But this is too much! These soldiery assume more than is their right. I have heard before of this man’s brawls. He is a fighter out of employment now, for we are at peace, and I will not have him insult my guests.”
“But you will pardon him, Sire?” said Francis. “We were not hurt. Next time we meet, your brave officer will doubtless make amends.”
“He must! He shall!” cried Henry hotly. “And—”
“Sire,” interrupted Francis, smiling, “I am your visitor. Grant me the first favour that I ask.”
“Anything,” cried the King, smiling in his turn.
“Then you will forgive this brave man?”
The King bowed.