“I rode up just as you were declaring your identity. The son of Sir Marmaduke Wade has no need to conceal his name. It is one to be proud of.”
“In my father’s name I thank you. You know him, sir?”
“Only by sight and—reputation,” answered the stranger, musingly. “You are in the service of the Court?” he continued, after a pause.
“No longer now. I took leave of it this very morning.”
“Resigned?”
“It was my father’s wish I should return home.”
“Indeed! And for what reason? Pardon my freedom in asking the question.”
“Oh!” replied the young courtier, with an air of naïveté, “I should make you free to the reason, if I only knew it myself. But in truth, sir, I am ignorant of it. I only know that my father has written to the king, asking permission for me to return home; that the king has granted it—though, I have reason to think, with an ill grace: since his Majesty appeared angry with me at parting; or, perhaps, I should say, angry with my father.”
The intelligence thus communicated by the ci-devant courtier, instead of eliciting any expression of regret from his companion, seemed rather to gratify him.
“So far good!” muttered he to himself. “Safe upon our side. This, will secure him.”