"What?" asked I; "know you aught of him?"
"Ay," answered Copeland slowly and grimly, "more, by St. John of Beverley! than he would care to hear; but nothing, I own, to enable me to guess why he should bear malice towards such as you."
"But what know you of him?" asked I eagerly.
"This, at least," replied Copeland in a low tone, "that he feels his seat less soft than a bed of down, and that his temper is severely tried at times."
"In what way?" asked I.
"Why, simply because men say—or, at least, whisper, if they dare not say it aloud—that he is not the true heir of the barons whose titles he bears and whose lands he possesses. But you must have heard something of the story?"
"Not a whisper," said I. "I pray you relate it. I am all attention."
"I will relate it," said Copeland; "but understand, master page, that what I say is under the rose: it is not safe to speak freely of the great."
"Credit me, sir knight, you are safe with me," exclaimed I firmly; "I am incapable of betraying any man's confidence."