“My Lord Leicester, I crave a word with you.”
“Crave on, good fellow,” responded Leicester, with a look of boredom, making to pass by.
“I am Lemprière, Lord of Rozel, my lord—”
“Ah yes, I took you for a farmer,” answered Leicester. “Instead of that, I believe you keep doves, and wear a jerkin that fits like a king’s. Dear Lord, so does greatness come with girth!”
“The king that gave me dove-cotes gave me honor, and ’tis not for the Earl of Leicester to belittle it.”
“What is your coat of arms?” said Leicester, with a faint smile, but in an assumed tone of natural interest.
“A swan upon a sea of azure, two stars above, and over all a sword with a wreath around its point,” answered Lemprière, simply, unsuspecting irony, and touched by Leicester’s flint where he was most like to flare up with vanity.
“Ah!” said Leicester. “And the motto?”
“Mea spes supra stellas—my hope is beyond the stars.”