He stared at me across the table, and I saw the veins swell in his forehead.
“’Od’s life!” he says. “I believe thou art naught but a tame cock after all. Do I understand thee, nephew, to refuse service to His Majesty, and to prefer thy stinking parchments and musty folios to the sword and pistol?”
“Infinitely, sir,” says I, lying harder than ever.
He got up from the table, gave a deep sigh, and hobbled over to his chair. I ran forward to help him: he pushed me away testily.
“Leave women’s work to women,” he says, giving me a spiteful look. “Lord! that thou hadst been a lass, and Alison French a man!”
“I am not the less a man because I am a man of peace, sir,” I answers, more damnably hypocritical than ever.
“Confound your cool manners!” says he, losing his temper. “’Od’s body, a pretty fellow you have turned out, setting yourself against the king’s interests! Now hark thee, nephew—either go to Sir Jarvis and take service under him as I desire, or else leave here at once and return to thy books and parchments: I’ll have no laggards dangling about my hall in time o’ war.”
“Dear sir,” says I. “I was about to ask your permission to return to Oxford this day. ’Tis still far from term time, but there is a professor there with whom I am anxious to continue my reading.”
“Aye,” he says, as if to himself. “Aye—oh, return at once! I could not abide to see thee playing with books when thou shouldst be practising fence.”