There was another silence.

'Your Highness,' said Sir John at last, 'you must not expect grapes
from a thistle. I am old and a cynic. Nobody cares a rush for me;
and on the whole, after the present interview, I scarce know anybody
that I like better than yourself. You see, I have changed my mind,
and have the uncommon virtue to avow the change. I tear up this
stuff before you, here in your own garden; I ask your pardon, I ask
the pardon of the Princess; and I give you my word of honour as a
gentleman and an old man, that when my book of travels shall appear
it shall not contain so much as the name of Grunewald. And yet it
was a racy chapter! But had your Highness only read about the other
courts! I am a carrion crow; but it is not my fault, after all,
that the world is such a nauseous kennel.'

'Sir,' said Otto, 'is the eye not jaundiced?'

'Nay,' cried the traveller, 'very likely. I am one who goes
sniffing; I am no poet. I believe in a better future for the world;
or, at all accounts, I do most potently disbelieve in the present.
Rotten eggs is the burthen of my song. But indeed, your Highness,
when I meet with any merit, I do not think that I am slow to
recognise it. This is a day that I shall still recall with
gratitude, for I have found a sovereign with some manly virtues; and
for once - old courtier and old radical as I am - it is from the
heart and quite sincerely that I can request the honour of kissing
your Highness's hand?'

'Nay, sir,' said Otto, 'to my heart!'