Now the Dymoke has from time immemorial in England a vested right of appearing at the Coronation mounted and clad in plate armour, to cast his gauntlet on the floor of Westminster Hall, and there challenge all comers to joust à l'entrance on behalf of his sovereign's right to the throne of this kingdom.
"I don't see," said the Adjutant, suavely, "what the Queen's champion has to do with that box of gloves."
"I intercepted these, sir," said Dymoke, "at the door of the private rooms; they are a gross of white gloves for her Majesty. I want to wear my Lady's favour to-morrow, and this is the first thing I've managed to steal for months."
"Pardon, sir," said Lord Sydney, saluting; "but though we can't all wear boiler plate like Dymoke, every trooper in the Guard wants to bear our Lady's favour."
"My Lord," the Adjutant smiled, "are we unfortunate officers to be left out? Sergeant, have one of her Majesty's gloves placed at every cover in the Regimental Mess, and pass the word for each man to fasten the Queen's favour on his helmet. If she is angry, she shall punish the lot of us—but see that no outsider gets a chance."
The boy was beyond surprise by this time, and, like a colt broken of shying, was introduced to the men on duty. He was shown the armoury, mess-room, club-rooms, baths, stables—all that splendid barrack which fronted the palace.
Then Sydney took him to the room allotted to his use, and the lad's heart beat high as he put on the undress uniform of the corps.
"Do you feel like a savage now?" asked Sydney, laughing.
"I don't know how I feel."
The lad was changed beyond knowledge, his bronzed skin glowing against the silver, and if his face was made in the rough, his limbs were a matter for boasting.