ingled its
cold, pale, blue diffusion with the red, yellow, and smoky beams of
expiring lamps and torches. The young gallant, whom we noticed in our
last chapter, had left the room for a few minutes, to learn the cause of
a knocking at the outward gate, and on his return was so struck with
the forlorn and ghastly aspects of his companions of the watch that
he exclaimed, "Pity of my heart, my masters, how like owls you look!
Methinks, when the sun rises, I shall see you flutter off with your eyes
dazzled, to stick yourselves into the next ivy-tod or ruined steeple."

"Hold thy peace, thou gibing fool," said Blount; "hold thy peace. Is
this a time for jeering, when the manhood of England is perchance dying
within a wall's breadth of thee?"

"There thou liest," replied the gallant.

"How, lie!" exclaimed Blount, starting up, "lie! and to me?"

"Why, so thou didst, thou peevish fool," answered the youth; "thou didst
lie on that bench even now, didst thou not? But art thou not a hasty
coxcomb to pick up a wry word so wrathfully? Nevertheless, loving and,
honouring my lord as truly as thou, or any one, I do say that, should
Heaven take him from us, all England's manhood dies not with him."

"Ay," replied Blount, "a good portion will survive with thee,
doubtless."

"And a good portion with thyself, Blount, and with stout Markham here,
and Tracy, and all of us. But I am he will best employ the talent Heaven
has given to us all."

"As how, I prithee?" said Blount; "tell us your mystery of multiplying."

"Why, sirs," answered the youth, "ye are like goodly land, which bears
no crop because it is not quickened by manure; but I have that rising
spirit in me which will make my poor faculties labour to keep pace with
it. My ambition will keep my brain at work, I warrant thee."

"I pray to God it does not drive thee mad," said Blount; "for my part,
if we lose our noble lord, I bid adieu to the court and to the camp
both. I have five hundred foul acres in Norfolk, and thither will I, and
change the court pantoufle for the country hobnail."

"O base transmutation!" exclaimed his antagonist; "thou hast already got
the true rustic slouch--thy shoulders stoop, as if thine hands were at
the stilts of the plough; and thou hast a kind of earthy smell about
thee, instead of being perfumed with essence, as a gallant and courtier
should. On my soul, thou hast stolen out to roll thyself on a hay mow!
Thy only excuse will be to swear by