"Thou hast thy father's warm heart and hasty thought, Marmaduke," said
Warwick, raising him; "and now he is gone where, we trust, brave men,
shrived of their sins, look down upon us, who should be thy friend but
Richard Nevile? So--so--yes, let me look at thee. Ha! stout Guy's
honest face, every line of it: but to the girls, perhaps, comelier,
for wanting a scar or two. Never blush,--thou shalt win the scars
yet. So thou hast a letter from thy father?"

"It is here, noble lord."

"And why," said the earl, cutting the silk with his dagger--"why hast
thou so long hung back from presenting it? But I need not ask thee.
These uncivil times have made kith and kin doubt worse of each other
than thy delay did of me. Sir Guy's mark, sure eno'! Brave old man!
I loved him the better for that, like me, the sword was more meet than
the pen for his bold hand." Here Warwick scanned, with some slowness,
the lines dictated by the dead to the priest; and when he had done, he
laid the letter respectfully on his desk, and bowing his head over it,
muttered to himself,--it might be an Ave for the deceased. "Well," he
said, reseating himself, and again motioning Marmaduke to follow his
example, "thy father was, in sooth, to blame for the side he took in
the Wars. What son of the Norman could bow knee or vail plume to that
shadow of a king, Henry of Windsor? And for his bloody wife--she knew
no more of an Englishman's pith and pride than I know of the rhymes
and roundels of old Rene, her father. Guy Nevile--good Guy--many a
day in my boyhood did he teach me how to bear my lance at the crest,
and direct my sword at the mail joints. He was cunning at fence--thy
worshipful father--but I was ever a bad scholar; and my dull arm, to
this day, hopes more from its strength than its craft."