Over the door was a shield-shaped sign, bearing the
Derby ram for cognizance, and the legend, "Martin Moyle, Grocer and
Italian Warehouseman." I noted it then, because the word 'Italian' carried
me back to Margaret's tirra-lirring, and I note it down now because,
having looked at it, my eyes ranged over the heads of the gapers in the
doorway to where Maclachlan, on the fringe of the group, was dodging about
to find a place where he could see Margaret without being seen by the
Prince.
Master Freake was talking with the Prince as composedly as if they had
been friends of old standing. We had missed the beginning of their talk,
but it was plain that Charles had expected a recruit and was disappointed.
"And why do you stand aside from us both?" he asked.
"Sir," said the sedate merchant, "I am not interested in making kings."
"What then?"
"Kingdoms, sir."
"Kingdoms!" cried the Prince.
"Kingdoms!" reiterated Master Freake, with pride and emphasis. "But for
me, and men like me, this country would be a waste not worth fighting for."
The Prince looked with astonishment at the calm, solid man who made this
strange announcement.
Pages:
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447