the preparation of fishing-tackle, he was heedfully watching the face of
his royal master out of the corner of his dare-devil eyes.

"Where is James, Tom?" asked presently the King.

"Gone to feed the hawks, Sir."

"One's own flesh-and-blood is poor company, he finds. By the Lord, Tom,
this is no life for a Christian, be he man or boy. To be lunged round my
good mother at the length of her apron-string seemed but dull work, and
making love to the Grande Mademoiselle was indifferent pastime. But,
odsfish, I would willingly be back there. In this God-forgotten corner
you cannot see a petticoat on any terms, save the farthingale of Dame
Carteret or her ancient housekeeper, as they cross the courtyard to give
corn to the pigeons. James and I went out fishing yesterday, as far as
S. Owen's pond; but no sport had we there but the chance of a broken
head from a Puritan farmer."

"Why, what a plague did they want by laying hands on our anointed pate?"

"Ah! look you," said Charles, in his languid drawl, "We did but beg a
cup of cider from his daughter. James hath a long face and a dull tongue
for a boy of his age; but I warrant I spoke the wench fair for my part;
and in French that had passed muster at Versailles. But 'tis a perverse
and stiff-necked generation. The wench screamed in some language not
understandable by us--Carribee it may be--but faith there was no
difficulty about the farmer's meaning: he conjugated his fists, but we
declined the encounter; and so we were quit as to grammar."

The manner of the speaker was in such dry and droll contrast with his