“Cruets!” yelled Hubert, whose last spelling lesson had ended with that word.
“Crusaders, you little donkey,” said Andrew, with withering scorn.
“Yes,” said Phoena; “of course the Crusaders were amongst the people I meant, for you see when they once decided to deliver the Holy City, they did wear a red cross on their arm as an outward badge of their intentions; but I wasn’t thinking of them so much as of Arthur’s knights of the Round Table; that glorious company, you know, the flower of men.”
“I see,” said Di; “of course, by accepting knighthood they did advertise their good intentions.”
“Yes, but before they could be knights they had to bind themselves by vows to keep those good intentions,” said Phoena; “and those vows bound them fast like chains, from which they never could be set free without shame and dishonour until they had fulfilled them.”
“Then pray are we all to wear chains?” enquired Andrew.
“Chain up yourself,” said Phil, “and let Phoena speak, will you? Go on, Phoena.”
“Well, if you don’t mind listening,” she continued, “this is what I thought. Though we haven’t got a King Arthur, and——”
“But we’ve got Mrs. Busson’s round table in the window,” put in the irrepressible Di.
“And though we can’t get the Archbishop of Canterbury to come and bless our sieges—yes, don’t laugh, that is the proper name for our seats—and though we can’t have our names put in letters of gold over each of our places, yet I don’t see why we shouldn’t have a sort of Round Table here, and agree to promise to do as far as we can all that Arthur made his knights promise to do.”