“Idly enough,” agreed Ferne with a quick sigh.  He lifted his hands from the other’s shoulders, and with an effort too instantaneous to be apparent shook off his melancholy.  Arden took up his hat and swung his short cloak over his shoulder.

“Since we may not fight,” he said, “I’ll e’en go play.  There’s a pretty lady hard by who loves me dearly.  I’ll go tell her tales of the Carib beauties.  Master Sedley, you are for the court, I know.  Would the gods had sent me such a sister!  Do you go to Leicester House, Mortimer?  If not, my fair Discretion hath a mate—­”

“I,” answered Ferne, “am also for Greenwich.”

Arden laughed again.  “Her Grace gives you yet another audience?  Or is it that hath come to court that Nonpareil, that radiant Incognita, that be-rhymed Dione at whose real name you keep us guessing?  I thought the violet satin was not for naught!”

“In that you speak with truth,” said the other, coolly, “for thirty acres of good Devon land went to its procuring.  Since you are for the court, Henry Sedley, one wherry may carry the two of us.”

When the two adventurers and the boy in blue and silver had made half the distance to the pleasant palace where, like a flight of multicolored birds, had settled for the moment Elizabeth’s migratory court, the gentlemen became taciturn and fell at length to silent musing, each upon his own affairs.  The boy liked it not, for their discourse had been of armor and devices, of war-horses and Spanish swords, and such knightly matters as pleased him to the marrow.  He himself (Robin-a-dale they called him) meant to be altogether such a one as his master in violet satin.  Not a sea-dog simply and terrible fighter like Captain Manwood or Ambrose Wynch, nor a ruffler like Baldry, nor even a high, cold gentleman like Sir John, who slew Spaniards for the good of God and the Queen, and whose slow words when he was displeased cut like a rope’s end.  But he would fight and he would sing; he would laugh with his foe and then courteously kill him; he would know how to enter the presence, how to make a great Queen smile and sigh; and then again, amid the thunder and reek of the fight, on decks slippery with blood, he would strain, half naked, with the mariners, he would lead the boarders, he would deal death with a flashing sword and a face that seen through the smoke wreaths was so calm and high!—­And the Queen might knight him—­one day the Queen might knight him.  And the people at home, turning in the street, would look and cry, “’Tis Sir Robert Dale!” as now they cry “Sir Mortimer Ferne!”