It was my father who spoke. Through influences that I knew not of, he had obtained a place for us near General Monk, at the landing, and now through the same means we had followed the king to the canopy.
"Who is this?" asked the king sharply.
"It is Master Philip Rashcliffe," said a voice. "He was one who fought for your gracious sire in the first civil war, and was grievously wounded."
He gave only a passing glance to my father, but fixed his eyes on me, who stood by his side.
"And who is this brave youth? Nay, nay, do not speak for him; speak for yourself, young man."
"My name is Roland Rashcliffe, your Majesty," I made answer.
"The son of Master Philip here?"
"A youth of spirit, I should judge," he said, "ay, and well grown too. He pleaseth me well."
Now at this my heart was all elate, for let who will say otherwise, it is no light thing for a youth to be noticed by his king.