Sir Richard Pendragon, having drunk copiously of his favourite beverage out of his favourite cup, and having insisted that I should follow his example, said,—
“Master Miguel, in what part of the globe do you intend to adventure to-morrow with your noble eight crowns? They will not bear you above a thousand leagues; fortune does not grow on the bushes, according to all that I have heard about it; your stomach is too proud to take service with one who has the blood of kings flowing under his doublet; so it would seem that unless you bring your chaste mind to the nicking of purses and the cutting of throats, your body will starve.”
“God forbid, sir! I have devices of my own. I mind me of one of the finest and most sententious of my father’s precepts.”
“Not of swordsmanship, I trust?”
“No, sir, of conduct.”
“Not of conduct of the sword, Master Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas—how I love the sound of that name!—if I may put the question?”
“Not conduct of the sword, sir, conduct of the heart. My father’s precept was this: ‘In choosing him you shall serve, rather let it be some high lord or gentleman of birth, diminished in his fortune, or in some sort isolated from his right estate, for it is the cause of the weak that feeds the valiant.’”
It was pleasing to witness Sir Richard Pendragon nod his head in approval.
“That was well observed of your father, Master Miguel. I am rejoiced to notice that he knew a little more of mankind than he did of martial weapons. But, by my sooth, you will not need to look above a thousand leagues for this high lord or gentleman of birth, diminished in his fortune, or in some sort isolated from his right estate.”
“I am well pleased,” said I eagerly, “that he is so near at hand. Where may he be, good Englishman?”