“The dappled one?” said the Regent; “and all for making a little mark?” The boy jumped for the pen.

“Lionel,” said the Queen, “you are Regent of England, but you are also my son.  If you sign that paper you will beyond doubt get the pony, but you will not, I think, care to ride him.  You will not care to sit down at all, Lionel.”

The Regent considered.  “Thank you very much, my lord,” he said in the ultimate, “but I do not like ponies any more.  Do I sign here, Mother?”

Philippa handed the Marquess a subscribed order to muster the English forces at Blackheath; then another, closing the English ports.  “My lords,” the Queen said, “this boy is the King’s vicar.  In defying him, you defy the King.  Yes, Lionel, you have fairly earned a pot of jam for supper.”

Then Hastings went away without speaking.  That night assembled at his lodgings, by appointment, Viscount Heringaud, Adam Frere, the Marquess of Orme, Lord Stourton, the Earls of Neville and Gage, and Sir Thomas Rokeby.  These seven found a long table there littered with pens and parchment; to the rear of it, with a lackey behind him, sat the Marquess of Hastings, meditative over a cup of Bordeaux.

Presently Hastings said:  “My friends, in creating our womankind the Maker of us all was beyond doubt actuated by laudable and cogent reasons; so that I can merely lament my inability to fathom these reasons.  I shall obey the Queen faithfully, since if I did otherwise Sire Edward would have my head off within a day of his return.  In consequence, I do not consider it convenient to oppose his vicar.  To-morrow I shall assemble the tatters of troops which remain to us, and to-morrow we march northward to inevitable defeat.  To-night I am sending a courier into Northumberland.  He is an obliging person, and would convey—­to cite an instance—­eight letters quite as blithely as one.”

Each man glanced furtively about.  England was in a panic by this, and knew itself to lie before the Bruce defenceless.  The all-powerful Countess of Salisbury had compounded with King David; now Hastings, too, their generalissimo, compounded.  What the devil! loyalty was a sonorous word, and so was patriotism, but, after all, one had estates in the north.

The seven wrote in silence.  I must tell you that when they had ended, Hastings gathered the letters into a heap, and without glancing at the superscriptures, handed all these letters to the attendant lackey.  “For the courier,” he said.

The fellow left the apartment.  Presently you heard a departing clatter of hoofs, and Hastings rose.  He was a gaunt, terrible old man, gray-bearded, and having high eyebrows that twitched and jerked.

“We have saved our precious skins,” said he.  “Hey, you fidgeters, you ferments of sour offal!  I commend your common-sense, messieurs, and I request you to withdraw.  Even a damned rogue such as I has need of a cleaner atmosphere in order to breathe comfortably.”  The seven went away without further speech.