Indeed, for a time the issue had seemed doubtful, for the endurance and persistence of the seigneur made for exasperation and recklessness in his antagonist, and once blood was drawn from the wrist of the great man; but at length Lemprière went upon the aggressive. Here he erred, for Leicester found the chance for which he had manœuvred—to use the feint and thrust got out of Italy. He brought his enemy low, but only after a duel the like of which had never been seen at the court of England. The matadore had slain his bull at last, but had done no justice to his reputation. Never did man more gallantly sustain his honor with heaviest odds against him than did the Seigneur of Rozel that day.
“‘HANG FAST TO YOUR HONORS BY THE SKIN OF YOUR TEETH, MY LORD’”
As he was carried away by the merry gentlemen of the court, he called back to the favorite:
“Leicester is not so great a swordsman, after all. Hang fast to your honors by the skin of your teeth, my lord.”
[XIV]
IT was Monday, and the eyes of London and the court were turned towards Greenwich Park, where the Queen was to give entertainment to the French envoy who had come once more to urge upon the Queen marriage with a son of the Medici, and to obtain an assurance that she would return to France the widow of the great Montgomery and his valiant lieutenant, Michel de la Forêt. The river was covered with boats and barges, festooned, canopied, and hung with banners and devices; and from sunrise music and singing conducted down the stream the gayly dressed populace—for those were the days when a man spent on his ruff and his hose and his russet coat as much as would feed and house a family for a year; when the fine-figured ruffler with sables about his neck, corked slipper, trimmed buskin, and cloak of silk or damask furred, carried his all upon his back.