"Alas, no!" replied Walter, colouring in painful humility; "may it please your Majesty I am but a poor protegée of the noble Dunbarton. I know not my family, my name, or my origin."
"It matters not—I shall render honour to all who deserve it; arise Sir Walter Fenton, Knight Banneret—of this power, at least, my son William cannot deprive me."
Startled by the suddenness of the action, Walter, whose heart leaped within him at the words of the King, could only kiss his hand and resume his place in the ranks of his cavalier comrades, who with difficulty repressed a shout of applause. Walter felt giddy and confused; the King still seemed to be addressing him.
The temporary excitement which had led James through this painful interview, now passed away, and his features became overclouded with a sad and bitter expression, as he went slowly along the line asking each officer his name, inserting it in his note book, and returning him personal thanks. Meanwhile the troop of huntsmen, equerries, and whippers-in, with their packs of panting-hounds, were grouped about the terrace, and quite forgotten in the excitement of this sorrowful review.
"Your name, Sir—yesterday you were at my levée in a garb more suitable to your rank," said James, to a tall and very handsome man, whose fashionably curled wig consorted ill with the coarse looped hat and plain blue coat of a French musqueteer; "your name, Sir, if you please?"
"John Ogilvie, of the house of Airly—late a captain in your Majesty's Life Guard."
"Sir, I thank you—the day may come when you shall command that Life Guard," replied James, writing down his name; "and yours, Sir?" he asked of the next.
"Grant of Dunlugais—a captain of Mar's Fusiliers."
"Then you have lost an estate in my service?"
"I have lost nothing that I can regret in such a cause."