erity, and I, Simon--I do fairly
worship discretion!"

"Indeed I fear I can boast of little, sir."

"You shall boast of none, and thereby show the more, Simon. Come,
there's the King." And he darted on, in equal good humour, as it seemed,
with himself and me. Moreover, he lost no time on his errand; for when I
reached his side (since they who made way for him afforded me no such
civility) he had not only reached the King's chair, but was half-way
through his story of my answer to the Duke of York; all chance of
stopping him was gone.

"Now I'm damned indeed," thought I; but I set my teeth, and listened
with unmoved face.

At this moment the King was alone, save for ourselves and a little
long-eared dog which lay on his lap and was incessantly caressed with
his hand. He heard his son's story with a face as impassive as I strove
to render mine. At the end he looked up at me, asking,

"What are these liberties which are so dear to you, sir?"

My tongue had got me into trouble enough for one day, so I set its music
to a softer tune.

"Those which I see preserved and honoured by your Majesty," said I,
bowing.

Monmouth laughed, and clapped me on the back; but the King proceeded
gravely:

"And this Reformed Religion that you set above my orders?"

"The Faith, Sir, of which you are Defender."

"Come, Mr Dale," said he, rather surly, "if you had spoken to my brother
as skilfully as you fence with me, he would not have been angry."

I do not know what came over me. I said it in all honest simplicity,
meaning only to excuse myself for the disrespect I had shown to the
Duke; but I phrased the sentence most vilely, for I said:

"When His Royal Highness questioned me, Sir, I had to speak the truth."

Monmouth burst into a roar, and a moment later the King followed with a
more subdued but not less thorough merriment. When his mirth subsided he
said,

"True, Mr Dale. I am a King, and no man is bound to speak truth to me.
Nor, by heaven--and there's a compensation--I to any man!"

"Nor woman," said Monmouth, looking at the ceiling in apparent absence
of mind.

"Nor even boy," added the King, with an amused glance at his son. "Well,
Mr Dale, can you serve me and this conscience of yours also?"

"Indeed I cannot doubt it, Sir," said I.

"A man's king should be his conscience," said the King.

"And what should be conscience to the King, Sir?" asked Monmouth.

"Why, James, a recognition of what evil things he may