ed by the Seigneur of Rozel, who also was shaken from his
discretion and the best interests of the two fugitives he was bound to
protect, by a late offence against his own dignity. A seed of rancour
had been sown in his mind which had grown to a great size and must
presently burst into a dark flower of vengeance. He, Lempriere of Rozel,
with three dovecotes, the perquage, and the office of butler to the
Queen, to be called a "farmer," to be sneered at--it was not in the
blood of man, not in the towering vanity of a Lempriere, to endure it at
any price computable to mortal mind.

Thus there were in England on that day two fools (there are as many
now), and one said:

"My Lord Leicester, I crave a word with you."

"Crave on, good fellow," responded Leicester with a look of boredom,
making to pass by.

"I am Lempriere, lord of Rozel, my lord--"

"Ah yes, I took you for a farmer," answered Leicester. "Instead of that,
I believe you keep doves, and wear a jerkin that fits like a king's.
Dear Lord, so does greatness come with girth!"

"The King that gave me dove-cotes gave me honour, and 'tis not for the
Earl of Leicester to belittle it."

"What is your coat of arms?" said Leicester with a faint smile, but in
an assumed tone of natural interest.

"A swan upon a sea of azure, two stars above, and over all a sword with
a wreath around its point," answered Lempriere simply, unsuspecting
irony, and touched by Leicester's flint where he was most like to flare
up with vanity.

"Ah!" said Leicester. "And the motto?"

"Mea spes supra stella--my hope is beyond the stars."

"And the wreath--of parsley, I suppose?"

Now Lempriere understood, and he shook with fury as he roared:

"Yes, by God, and to be got at the point of the sword, to put on the
heads of insolents like Lord Leicester!" His face was flaming, he was
like a cock strutting upon a stable mound.

There fell a slight pause, and then Leicester said: "To-morrow at
daylight, eh?"

"Now, my lord, now!"

"We have no seconds."

"'Sblood! 'Tis not your way, my lord, to be stickling in detail of
courtesy."

"'Tis not the custom to draw swords in secret, Lempriere of Rozel. Also
my teeth are not on edge to fight you."

Lempriere had already drawn his sword, and the look of his eyes was as
that of a mad bull in a ring. "You won't fight with me--you don't think
Rozel your equal?" His voice was high.

Leicester's face took on a hard, cruel look. "We cannot figh