The old man stared.
"And who med 'ee be, your honour, if I mebbe so bold to axe?" he said slowly.
"I? Oh—well, I have care of the Queen's purse."
"There now, and I've been talken to 'ee just as if 'ee were a knight or squire, when I med ha' known 'ee by your cut for one of the mighty o' the earth. But 'ee'll forgive a old man—ay, gone eighty year. I was born three year afore Scotch Jamie died; no sart of a king was Jamie, a wamblen loon, so I've yeard tell. And Charles One, he was well-favoured before the Lord, true, but not a man of his word. Nay, Noll Crum'ell was the right sart o' king; I mind un well. I was a trooper in his regiment, and we was as fine a set o' men as ever trod neat's leather, true, we was. I rode wi' un to Marston Moor in '44, nigh zixty year back. Ay, a right king was old Noll. And I fought in Flanders when Noll was friends with the French king; but I left that line o' life when Charles Two come back with his French madams; and now we be a-fighten the French, so 'tis said; 'twas what us Englishmen was born for, to be sure; ay, that 'tis."
Here my lord's attention was attracted towards a group of villagers approaching. They were led by a short well-set-up fellow with a humorous cast of face; his thumbs were stuck into his arm-pits, and as he walked he was singing to the accompaniment of a flute played by the man at his side. The old man looked towards him and smiled affectionately.
"'Tis my boy a-comen," he said. "Was born in '59, your honour, the year afore Charles Two coom back; and I chrisomed un Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless out of Nehemiah nine; a good boy, though wilful."
The boy of forty-three was singing lustily:
"'Twas on a jolly summer's morn, the twenty-first of May,
Giles Scroggins took his turmut-hoe, and with it trudged away.
For some delights in hay-makin', and some they fancies mowin',
But of all the trades as I likes best, give I the turmut hoein'.
For the fly, the fly, the fly is on the turmut;
And 'tis all my eye for we to try, to keep fly off the turmut."
"Mum, boy, mum!" said his father. "The boy has a sweet breast, your honour," he added, turning to Godolphin, "and 'tis my belief 'twill lead un into bad company in the days o' his youth. He will sing 'Sir Simon the King' and 'Bobbing Joan', and other sinful ditties. Ah! I had a good breast in my time; and you should ha' yeard Noll's men sing as we marched into Preston fight; I could sing counter to any man.—Boy, doff your hat to the Queen's purse-bearer.—Ay, 'twas psa'ms an' hymns an' speritual songs in my time, as the Book says."
"Sarvant, yer honour," said the new-comer, bobbing to Godolphin. "Feyther been taken away my good name? 'Tis a wise feyther knows his own child; feyther o' mine forgot that when he named me Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless. Beant the fault o' my name I ha'n't took to bad courses. But there, he's a old ancient man, nigh ready for churchyard—bean't 'ee, dad?"