“Gott! Sir Thomas; that should be the reverse of pleasant, from what you’ve told me about the old Roundhead’s tongue. He may give it me as he did yourself.”
“No fear of that, your Highness.”
“Why not, pray?”
“The circumstances are quite different. He had backings about him then—these ugly fores fellows, five to our one. Besides a Royal Prince—Puritan though he be—he’ll have respect for that. But what matters it about his prating? Your Highness intends laying him by the heels.”
“That will depend on circumstances. We must try the suaviter before the fortiter. If fair words fail, then—the extremities.”
“Our present visit to the Master of Hollymead is to be of a friendly character then? Is that your Highness’s intention!”
“Ceremoniously so; all the politeness to be observed by every one of our escort. You will see to that, Colonel?”
“It shall be seen to. But does your Highness propose taking them all to the house? It might be convenient to leave some at the village, to wait your coming back.”
“Nein, nein!” impatiently exclaimed the Prince. “All go on with me.”
Astute schemer as was Lunsford himself, he was not aware of certain motives actuating his master. Anything but an Adonis was the son of the Elector Palatinate. Yet such he dreamed himself, with a confidence in his power of fascinating the fair sex almost illimitable. The type and boast of Cavalierism, he wielded sway uncontrolled wherever he went, or the Royal cause was triumphant; women, as men, either willingly submitting to his caprices, or not daring to oppose them. Many a conquest had he made over weak creatures consenting. For the achievement of such he well knew the advantage of stately show and regal surroundings, nowhere more effective than in the country he was defiling with his presence. Even at this day as then, where the proverbial indemnity for the wrong-doing of kings is extended to princes and princelets, their social backslidings gaining them credit, rather than blame, under the facetious title, geniality.