"Near by Hoddesdon. Over against the Rye House."
"The Rye House! Is not that how they call the ancient moated place that looks upon Master Izaak Walton's favourite old hostelry on the banks of the Lea?"
"The same, your majesty."
"And belongs, if we mistake not, to one Rum—Rum—"
"—bold. Richard Rumbold, a maltster."
"Ay; a prick-eared, Puritan-looking, malignant of a fellow, your majesty," interposed a twinkling-eyed gentleman, "who owns 'one daughter, passing fair,' as the dull old person does in the dull old play we all went to sleep over, a week or two since. Yes, yes; I remember her charming face well, and how the old curmudgeon came and dragged her in, sans cérémonie, from the little postern in the big red wall, where she was standing as pretty a framed picture as Lely or Sir Godfrey might make, to see your majesty's coach pass by. I' faith! I recall her well."
"And your memory on such points is a proverb, my Lord of Dorset," laughed the king; "but in truth I remember myself thinking the picture so exquisite, that I intended asking who she was of the good hostess of the King's Arms, one Mistress—Mistress—"
A slip in a name.
"Sheppard," prompted Lee.
"Ay, Sheppard, to be sure. A murrain befall me for forgetting the name of one who always professes such loyalty. Professes, friend," added the king in a significant tone.