“Oh, ye’re right, lady,” he panted, “the ’ospital was founded by Robert Dudley, Lord Leicester, ’e ’o was much at Elizabeth’s court, h’as you all know. And it’s a descendant h’of ’is, or of ’is sister, as you may say, ’o ’as the right to appoint the master ’ere in this ’ospital to this day. ’E’s Lord D’Lisle and Dudley, of Penshurst Place h’in Kent,—’im as is descended direct from the Lady Mary, sister of Robert Dudley, ’o married Sir ’Enry Sidney. H’its ’e ’o appoints the master h’over us this very day. But as I was saying,—it was ’ere that ’is Majesty King James was right royally h’entertained.”
“Yes,” broke in John, interrupting the rapid flow of expressionless words. “We’ll remember that all right.” Then in an aside to Philip, he whispered: “That’s the ninth time he has said ‘right royally entertained.’ I’m going to keep count.”
Having examined an embroidered curtain, the work of Amy Robsart at Cumnor Hall, the King of Dahomey’s State Execution Sword, which seemed a bit out of place amid the surroundings, and an old battle-ax, supposed to have been used for one side or the other on the Field of Hastings, in 1066, they bade farewell to their guide (who had suddenly ceased his mechanical orations like a clock which has run down), and drove away toward Kenilworth.
Guy’s Cliff next called for attention. It is first seen at the end of a long, stately avenue lined by great trees. At the back of the castle flows a stream, at this point widened out into a miniature lake, on the bank of which stands a very ancient, moss-covered Saxon mill. The castle across the water and the old mill make such very attractive pictures that their vicinity is always frequented by numbers of artists, sitting under their big umbrellas.
As the party stood under the trees by the mill, Mrs. Pitt gathered the young people about her.
“Now, I want to tell you the story of Guy of Warwick, for whom this Guy’s Cliff was called. He lived long, long ago (if he really did live at all), when England had great tracts of unsettled country, where men were afraid to go for fear of horrible monsters. This brave young Guy was a strong warrior, and he became famous because he slew the Dun cow, and other terrible animals which were tormenting the country folk. Guy later went off to the Crusades. These were pilgrimages which devout men made to Jerusalem, in the endeavor to win back that city from the Turks. Guy was gone some time from England—years probably—and when he came back, he lived the life of a hermit, in a cave near here. The story goes that his wife used to carry food to him each day, and that she never recognized him until he was dying and revealed to her his identity.”
Here Mrs. Pitt was forced to pause for breath, and John broke in excitedly, “Oh, let’s go and see the cave! Can’t we?”
“I’m afraid not, John. You see, Guy’s Cliff belongs to Lord Algernon Percy, and the cave is on his private premises. I fear we would not be allowed to visit it,—especially as the family is now in residence at the castle. Did I tell you that Guy and his faithful wife were buried together in the cave?”
After taking lunch at the King’s Arms Hotel at Kenilworth, and seeing the room in which Scott wrote his novel, they proceeded to the castle. The afternoon was warm and sunny, with a blue sky and a summer haze over the landscape,—the kind of afternoon which invites one to day-dreams. Consequently, Mrs. Pitt ensconced herself against the crumbling wall of Cæsar’s Tower, put up her umbrella to keep off the glare of the sun, and sat dreaming over the remains of the once magnificent castle. Meanwhile the young people, accompanied by a guide, climbed all over the ruin. They scrambled up narrow stairs in thick walls, climbed as high as it was safe to go on old towers, and explored the dark chambers and passages near the old Banqueting-hall.
“This tower is supposed to be where Amy Robsart’s lodgings were,” their dignified guide told them, and then he boldly spoiled Betty’s delight, by saying, “It’s queer now how fascinated all visitors are by Amy Robsart. Of course, they’ve read of her in Scott’s novel, but curiously enough, that’s the only part of the tale which is not taken strictly from history. No one really knows whether Amy Robsart ever was at Kenilworth, and at any rate, it doesn’t seem at all likely that she was here at the time of Queen Elizabeth’s famous visit of 1563.”