"'Tis but the expression of what her heart feels," replied Lawrence warmly. "Mistress Sheppard is as loyal as the sign that hangs before her door. Though for Master Sheppard—h'm, well, 'tis no matter," and Lawrence came to a dead halt.
"We like not half-told tales, friend," sternly said the duke. "What of this fellow Sheppard?"
"Nothing, I assure you, sir—my lord—your highness," floundered Lee. "Nothing. He is a man of straw, a poor weathercock of a creature a lamb could not fear."
"Then whom the plague are we to fear?" demanded Charles testily.
"Not the old gentleman, I suppose, who fathers the pretty daughter, and hasn't a thought beyond her, and his rye-sacks, and his homily books, if his face goes for anything. Faith! 'twas as sour looking as if't had risen out of his own yeast tubs!" cried the earl.
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the company, who made a point of always greeting the very smallest sally of my Lord of Dorset's wit with shouts of laughter.
"Not he, friend?" said the king, who had not failed to remark Lee's silence and slightly confused downcasting of the eyelids during Lord Dorset's speech. "By the by," he went on, still scanning the young man's face and figure with a sort of indolent curiosity, "what may be your name? All this time we have not heard that. Who may you be?"
A reminder.
"Lawrence Lee, of the Nether Hall Farm by Hoddesdon," answered Lee proudly. "My father served your majesty's father well. Though, 'tis possible, your majesty may not recall his name."
Short memory on such points, even when such services touched still closer home, and had been rendered to himself, was far from uncommon in Charles. Notwithstanding, his dark eyes kindled genially as he continued to look at the young man, and the bantering smile grew softer. "And Nether Hall," he said, "neighbours the house of Master Rum—Rum—how the plague did the fellow come by such a heathenish name?"