At this the hard hearts relented altogether, and Harold rushed out and gave Albert a toss in the air that was very threatening to the eggs in the luncheon basket; and as soon as he was on terra firma again Marie-Celeste gave him a good hard hug, and both begged his pardon half a dozen times over for ever assuming for a moment that he was “too little,” and intimated that they felt very small indeed themselves to think they had been so unfeeling as to plan not to include him in the expedition. And so matters were beautifully adjusted, and the Knight-of-the-Garter party set out with Harold Harris, student and devoted admirer of the grand old knighthood, filling the important role of interpreter and guide. And where did they go first but to the castle, preferring to save until the last, because the best, the choir of St. George's, where the banners of the knights are hung and where the knights are duly installed. On the way Harold held forth, Marie-Celeste and Donald walking one on either side of him, and Albert, determined not to miss a word, trotting along at a sort of sidewise angle just in front, and yet careful to keep well out of the way, too, for fear of the remotest chance of “boddering.”
“Now to begin,” said Harold, “you know a knight at first was just a young man who had proved himself strong enough and brave enough to wear armor and be a soldier, and after that there came to be orders of knights. You remember I told you the other day what an order was, and how the Order of the Knights of the Garter happened to be started.” Yes, they remembered that, but no one remembered that poor little Albert had not been present on that occasion, and so knew nothing whatever about it; but Albert, so very thankful in his heart that he had been allowed to come at all, did not dare to make mention of the same.
“Where are we going first?” asked Marie-Celeste, who, unlike poor Albert, felt herself at perfect liberty to ask every question that occurred to her.
“To the Banqueting Hall, because it has more to do with the knights than any other room in the castle.”
“Oh, yes, that's where they have the Garter and the Cross of St. George woven even into the pattern of the carpet! And what about St. George—who was he?”
“Nobody knows, Marie-Celeste. He is supposed to have been a soldier in the Roman Army, and to have killed a monstrous dragon that no one else could overcome, and at last, after being dreadfully tortured for his faith in Christianity, he is also supposed to have died a martyr's death.”
“'Is supposed' isn't very satisfactory, Harold.”