"Arthur Winram," said the prince, smiling. "Beshrew me! it sounds well, and is a name that a ballad-maker would deem worthy to put in verse. However," continued he, "I trust you will live to make yourself a name worthy of your skill. Meanwhile," he added, "carry with you this comfort, that your performance to-day has been marked and appreciated by your king's son."
"Ha! my lord," interposed the Lord De Ov, "this hardly beseems you. We have already tarried here long enough. Why waste words on this young rustic? Let us ride;" and he laid his hand on the prince's rein.
"Roger De Ov, you forget yourself," said the prince haughtily, as he was led off, after exchanging courtesies with the mayor; while I, having watched his departure with a flashing eye, turned to my grandsire, whose brow was bent darkly and sternly.
"Grandsire," asked I, my heart swelling with rage and mortification, "who is that man?"
"What matters it, Arthur, my lad?" answered my grandsire, recovering with a start. "Be calm and be silent, and thine hour will come. Patience is a good palfrey, and will carry thee through many a day's journey."
"I could feel it in my heart to follow the miscreant, and strike him, even in the prince's presence," said I.
"And ruin yourself for ever. Nay, nay. Better let us carry the peacock you have won to the Falcon, and drink a cup with Thomelin, my cousin, ere we mount and ride homeward."
"Ay," said Thomelin; "let us to the Falcon."
And we went.