“Sir John,” quoth Mr. Markham, grasping his hand, “should it be ... a-tish! ... a boy, sir, one of his names, if you’ll permit, shall be ... a-hoosh! ... John, sir!”
“Mr. Markham, I ... I feel myself extreme ... shassho ... honoured, sir. My felicitations to your lady, and good-bye!”
“Robert,” quoth Sir John, when his sneezing had somewhat abated, “they seem to be making a confounded disturbance upstairs! What’s that hammering, I wonder?”
“Gentlemen a-trying to get out, I opine, sir!”
“To get out, Bob?”
“Precisely, sir. You see, I happened to lock ’em in, your honour.”
“Oh, did you, egad? Then we’d best be off and away before they break out. Are the horses ready?”
“All ready, sir—this way!”
So presently, having mounted in the yard, they rode off along the busy street and, winning clear of the traffic, set spurs to their spirited animals and had soon left the historic town of Lewes behind them. Yet often Sir John must turn to view this ancient town, seeming to drowse in the afternoon’s heat, its many-hued roofs of tile and thatch topped here and there by grey church spires; and over all the castle, with its embattled walls and towers, its mighty keep rising in grim majesty, hoary with age but glorious in decay.