name within a day's march of Mistress Salterne's, look to it, if I do
not--"

What was to be done in default was not spoken; for down went poor old
Vindex on his knees:--

"Oh, Sir Richard! Excellentissime, immo praecelsissime Domine et
Senator, I promise! O sir, Miles et Eques of the Garter, Bath, and
Golden Fleece, consider your dignities, and my old age--and my great
family--nine children--oh, Sir Richard, and eight of them girls!--Do
eagles war with mice? says the ancient!"

"Thy large family, eh? How old is that fat-witted son of thine?"

"Sixteen, Sir Richard; but that is not his fault, indeed!"

"Nay, I suppose he would be still sucking his thumb if he dared--get up,
man--get up and seat yourself."

"Heaven forbid!" murmured poor Vindex, with deep humility.

"Why is not the rogue at Oxford, with a murrain on him, instead of
lurching about here carrying tales and ogling the maidens?"

"I had hoped, Sir Richard--and therefore I said it was not his
fault--but there was never a servitorship at Exeter open."

"Go to, man--go to! I will speak to my brethren of the Trust, and to
Oxford he shall go this autumn, or else to Exeter gaol, for a strong
rogue, and a masterless man. Do you hear?"