“May I be one of so fair a company!” said I, feeling the spell of his passion.
“Amen to that, honest youth.” He spoke superbly. “Give old honest Dickon your hand upon it. There is no sort of doubt that I shall hold you to a vow that does such honour to your nation and your character. By the way, is that a ring I see upon your finger, honest youth?”
“It is an heirloom of my house,” said I. “It was given by my father to my mother when he came to woo her.”
The Englishman raised his eyebrows with an aspect of grave interest.
“Was that so, my young companion? Given by your father to your mother—was that really the case? And set with agates, unless my eyes deceive me.”
“Yes, they are agates.”
“The sight of agates puts me in mind of a ring I had of my old friend, the Sophy. I used always to affect it on the middle finger of the right hand, just as you affect your own, my son, until it was coveted by my sainted mother upon a wet Ash Wednesday.”
Still exhibiting the tokens of a lively regard, the Englishman began to fondle the ring as it lay on my finger.
“An honest band of gold, of a very chaste device. It looks uncommonly choice on the hand of a gentleman. Does it not fit somewhat loosely, my young companion?”
Speaking thus, and before I could suspect his intention, Sir Richard Pendragon drew the ring off my finger. He held it up to the light, and proceeded to examine it with the nicest particularity.