“Crave on, good fellow,” responded Leicester with a look of boredom, making to pass by.
“I am Lempriere, 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 honour, 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 Lempriere 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 stella—my hope is beyond the stars.”
“And the wreath—of parsley, I suppose?”
Now Lempriere understood, and he shook with fury as he roared: