and Capricorn,” he vociferated, “and the whole heavenly host, besides all the stars that these blessed eyes of mine have seen sparkle in the southern heavens, to which these northern blinkers are but farthing candles, I will be unkindly for no one’s humour—­I will stay and salute my worthy uncle here.  Chesu! that good blood should ever be forgotten betwixt friends!—­A gallon of your best, uncle, and let it go round to the health of the noble Earl of Leicester!  What! shall we not collogue together, and warm the cockles of our ancient kindness?—­shall we not collogue, I say?”

“With all my heart, kinsman,” said mine host, who obviously wished to be rid of him; “but are you to stand shot to all this good liquor?”

This is a question has quelled many a jovial toper, but it moved not the purpose of Lambourne’s soul, “Question my means, nuncle?” he said, producing a handful of mixed gold and silver pieces; “question Mexico and Peru—­question the Queen’s exchequer—­God save her Majesty!—­she is my good Lord’s good mistress.”

“Well, kinsman,” said mine host, “it is my business to sell wine to those who can buy it—­so, Jack Tapster, do me thine office.  But I would I knew how to come by money as lightly as thou dost, Mike.”

“Why, uncle,” said Lambourne, “I will tell thee a secret.  Dost see this little old fellow here? as old and withered a chip as ever the devil put into his porridge—­and yet, uncle, between you and me—­he hath Potosi in that brain of his—­’sblood! he can coin ducats faster than I can vent oaths.”

“I will have none of his coinage in my purse, though, Michael,” said mine host; “I know what belongs to falsifying the Queen’s coin.”

“Thou art an ass, uncle, for as old as thou art.—­Pull me not by the skirts, doctor, thou art an ass thyself to boot—­so, being both asses, I tell ye I spoke but metaphorically.”

“Are you mad?” said the old man; “is the devil in you?  Can you not let us begone without drawing all men’s eyes on us?”

“Sayest thou?” said Lambourne.  “Thou art deceived now—­no man shall see you, an I give the word.—­By heavens, masters, an any one dare to look on this old gentleman, I will slash the eyes out of his head with my poniard!—­So sit down, old friend, and be merry; these are mine ingles—­mine ancient inmates, and will betray no man.”

“Had you not better withdraw to a private apartment, nephew?” said Giles Gosling.  “You speak strange matter,” he added, “and there be intelligencers everywhere.”

“I care not for them,” said the magnanimous Michael—­“intelligencers? pshaw!  I serve the noble Earl of Leicester.—­Here comes the wine.—­Fill round, Master Skinker, a carouse to the health of the flower of England, the noble Earl of Leicester!  I say, the noble Earl of Leicester!  He that does me not reason is a swine of Sussex, and I’ll make him kneel to the pledge, if I should cut his hams and smoke them for bacon.”