Lambert was explaining his forecast of the
political weather. The young knight had a great fancy for airing his
politics, and an unwavering conviction of the infallibility of his
judgment. If Sir Lambert was to be believed, what King Edward would
undoubtedly do was to foment civil war in Scotland, until all the rival
male claimants had destroyed each other. He would then marry the
daughter of one of them, and annex Scotland as her appanage. All being
smooth in that quarter, the King would next undertake a pilgrimage to
Palestine, drive the Saracens out, and confer that country on one of his
sons-in-law. He would then carry fire and sword through Borussia,
Lithuania, and other heathen kingdoms in the north, subdue them all, put
a few more sons-in-law in possession as tributary governors, and being
by that time an old man, would then return to Westminster to end his
days in peace, a new Alexander, and to leave a magnificent empire to his
son.

"Easier said than done," growled De Chaucombe, in his beard.

"Charming!" observed De Echingham, caressing his pet moustache.

"A lovely prospect, indeed," said De Barkeworth, with a bow, in a tone
so impartially suspended between conviction and cynicism that nobody
could tell which had dictated it. "I should like to win my spurs in
Lithuania."

"Win thy spurs!" muttered De Chaucombe again. "There are no spurs for
carpet-knights [Note 3] in the wardrobe of the Future."

"I think knights should have golden spurs, not gilt ones--don't you?"
inquired De Echingham.

"Puppy!" sneered De Chaucombe. "If ever either are on thy heels it will
be a blunder of somebody's making."

"Is it necessary to quarrel?" asked Gernet, speaking for the first time.

"Oh, I trust I have more generosity than to quarrel with _him_," rather
contemptuously returned De Echingham, who, as every one present knew,
had as little physical courage as any girl.

"Make thyself easy," was the answer of De Chaucombe, as he walked away.
"I should not think of running the risk."

"What risk?" demanded Barkeworth, laughing. De Chaucombe looked back
over his shoulder, and discharged a Parthian dart.

"The risk of turning my good Damascus blade on a toad," said he, to the
great amusement of Barkeworth.

De Chaucombe went to the end of the balcony, descended the steps which
led to the ground floor, and came on a second terrace, also fronting the
river. As he turned a corner of the house he suddenly confr