“Inside my head?” laughed Charles still more merrily.
“In the talk, your Highness.”
“That is as it may be,” said Charles, “but there is more than one idea inside my head, and the biggest is that I’m not afraid of these evil persons; and the next is that if I can only get out of this badger-hole of a room, I’ll let them know I’m not—and I’ll protect my father from—where is my father just now, Wynkin?”
“He was in London a few days since.”
“Is mother with him?”
“Nay, I think she has gone to France, to fetch soldiers to come over and fight for the royal cause.”
“Oh, that is all right, and when they come—now, Wynkin, look here—I intend to go to my father and fight by his side. Oh, I tell you I can—see,” and, seizing his little wooden toy sword, he tipped his left fingers over his head and thrust out the weapon with such a valiant air that Wynkin laughed heartily and said he had never seen a finer copper captain.
“Nay, copper captain forsooth,” said Charles, flinging away the sword, and seizing the long white stick which Wynkin carried as his staff of office when waiting on the Prince. “I’ll show you I’m no copper captain,” and he began to lunge about with it so lustily that at last he gave Wynkin a sharp poke in the eye. “Oh, dear,” cried the boy, throwing down the stick; and, springing into the serving-man’s arms, he clung round his neck and stroked his damaged eye. “I’m so sorry, Wynkin. It doesn’t hurt much, does it—though it is going all red and black?”
“Nothing to talk about,” said Wynkin, “but you can cut and thrust with the best of ’em. Feeling’s believing.”