“Troth, sir, not I,” answered the host, “since ranting Robin of Drysandford was shot at the siege of the Brill.  The devil take the caliver that fired the ball, for a blither lad never filled a cup at midnight!  But he is dead and gone, and I know not a soldier, or a traveller, who is a soldier’s mate, that I would give a peeled codling for.”

“By the Mass, that is strange.  What! so many of our brave English hearts are abroad, and you, who seem to be a man of mark, have no friend, no kinsman among them?”

“Nay, if you speak of kinsmen,” answered Gosling, “I have one wild slip of a kinsman, who left us in the last year of Queen Mary; but he is better lost than found.”

“Do not say so, friend, unless you have heard ill of him lately.  Many a wild colt has turned out a noble steed.—­His name, I pray you?”

“Michael Lambourne,” answered the landlord of the Black Bear; “a son of my sister’s—­there is little pleasure in recollecting either the name or the connection.”

“Michael Lambourne!” said the stranger, as if endeavouring to recollect himself—­“what, no relation to Michael Lambourne, the gallant cavalier who behaved so bravely at the siege of Venlo that Grave Maurice thanked him at the head of the army?  Men said he was an English cavalier, and of no high extraction.”

“It could scarcely be my nephew,” said Giles Gosling, “for he had not the courage of a hen-partridge for aught but mischief.”

“Oh, many a man finds courage in the wars,” replied the stranger.

“It may be,” said the landlord; “but I would have thought our Mike more likely to lose the little he had.”

“The Michael Lambourne whom I knew,” continued the traveller, “was a likely fellow—­went always gay and well attired, and had a hawk’s eye after a pretty wench.”

“Our Michael,” replied the host, “had the look of a dog with a bottle at its tail, and wore a coat, every rag of which was bidding good-day to the rest.”

“Oh, men pick up good apparel in the wars,” replied the guest.

“Our Mike,” answered the landlord, “was more like to pick it up in a frippery warehouse, while the broker was looking another way; and, for the hawk’s eye you talk of, his was always after my stray spoons.  He was tapster’s boy here in this blessed house for a quarter of a year; and between misreckonings, miscarriages, mistakes, and misdemeanours, had he dwelt with me for three months longer, I might have pulled down sign, shut up house, and given the devil the key to keep.”

“You would be sorry, after all,” continued the traveller, “were I to tell you poor Mike Lambourne was shot at the head of his regiment at the taking of a sconce near Maestricht?”

“Sorry!—­it would be the blithest news I ever heard of him, since it would ensure me he was not hanged.  But let him pass—­I doubt his end will never do such credit to his friends.  Were it so, I should say”—­(taking another cup of sack)—­“Here’s God rest him, with all my heart.”