took his stand behind the king, and proceeded to wait upon him in the courtliest way he was capable of.
While the king ate, the rigor of his royal dignity relaxed a little, and with his growing contentment came a desire to talk. He said—
"GO ON—TELL MY THY STORY.""I think thou callest thyself Miles Hendon, if I heard thee aright?"
"Yes, sire," Miles replied; then observed to himself, "If I must humor the poor lad's madness, I must sire him, I must majesty him, I must not go by halves, I must stick at nothing that belongeth to the part I play, else shall I play it ill and work evil to this charitable and kindly cause."
The king warmed his heart with a second glass of wine, and said—"I would know thee—tell me thy story. Thou hast a gallant way with thee, and a noble—art nobly born?"
"We are of the tail of the nobility, good your majesty. My father is a baronet—one of the smaller lords, by knight service[1]—Sir Richard Hendon, of Hendon Hall, by Monk's Holm in Kent."
"The name has escaped my memory. Go on—tell me thy story."
"'Tis not much, your majesty, yet perchance it may beguile a short half hour for want of a better. My father, Sir Richard, is very rich,
- ↑ He refers to the order of baronets; or baronettes,—the barones minores, as distinct from the parliamentary barons;—not, it need hardly be said, the baronets of later creation.
