"Why so, bravo Falconer?" asked a familiar voice, as a hand was laid on his shoulder. "What melancholy crooning is this?"
Sir David turned, and his eyes met the face of the young king,—for he it was who wore the scarlet mantle, and had now laid the salade aside.
The two gentlemen started to their feet, and uncovered their heads with reverence.
"Nay, nay, sirs; put on your bonnets," said he. "I am the younger man by a few years, and, though a king, have not risked my head so often in my country's service; but a time may come. And now answer me truly, gallant Falconer—why didst thou not tell me of this old love of thine for our pretty Sybilla Drummond?"
"I dared not."
"Dared not! art thou not a brave fellow?"
"I am a poor one. Alas! your majesty cannot know the miserable timidity of the poor."
"Then what fettered thy tongue, stout Barton, eh?—thou who art laird of manors and acres, ships and stores, enow to make a monarch envy thee?"
"Because—dare I say it?"
"My true friends may say whatever they please to me."