"Ay, none but thee," I said, seeking her eyes beneath the covert of their lids. I breathed her name. I reached out my hand and gently unclasped her twining fingers, and with a lift of the eyes she gave me my answer. "Let the Queen say what she will!" I cried in my joy. "There is a little place in our south country, Sheila, within sound of the sea, in a fair forest, near soft-running brooks. I would not exchange it for a king’s palace. Good-bye the Camp, good-bye the pomp and glitter of the Court. There will we nest ourselves, my sweet, away from the noise and racket of the world." Toby Caulfeild was approved a true prophet. My fighting days were done. We took up our abode, Sheila and I, on my little manor, out of the current of war and intrigue, untouched by the discords that rent England asunder when the great Queen had gone to her rest. I never saw the Queen again after that Christmas when she goaded me to fight; what she would have said on hearing that I had wed an Irish maiden without her royal consent could only be guessed. When I returned with my bride from Ireland, the Queen was deep sunk in a lethargy, and the joys and sorrows of mortality were beyond her ken. [Illustration: tailpiece to Fifth Part] *Postscript* My grandfather took his bride home in the summer of the year 1603, and there they lived in great happiness and contentment, rarely stirring abroad save to make brief and sudden visits to London and to their many friends. My father, their sole child, was born in October of the year 1604, and when he came to the age of eleven, he was sent to the school at Winchester, whence in due order he proceeded to the New College at Oxford. All these years did my grandfather hold himself aloof from the Court, being much troubled in his mind about the foolish and heady courses of King James. My lady grandmother told me, I remember, how that on the day when he had news of the beheading of his old captain Sir Walter Raleigh, he shut himself up in his chamber, and for very sorrow would neither see nor speak with any of his household. And methinks I hear still his full round voice rehearsing to me the famous verses which Sir Walter wrote, the night before his death, in the Bible of the Dean of Westminster. "He lived and died a gentleman, boy," said he to me; "and if you would know the true signification of that word ’gentleman,’ read Castillo’s _Book of the Courtier_, in Mr. Hoby’s translation, though in truth you will find all and more in the 15th Psalm."