Leicester, on his part, no more caught at the meaning of the morning, at the long whisper of enlivened nature, than did his foe. The day gave to him no more than was his right. If the day was not fine, then Leicester was injured; but if the day was fine, then Leicester had his due. Moral blindness made him blind for the million deep teachings trembling round him. He felt only the garish and the splendid. So it was that at Kenilworth, where his Queen had visited him, the fêtes that he had held would far outshine the fête which would take place in Greenwich Park on this May Day. The fête of this May Day would take place, but would he see it? The thought flashed through his mind that he might not; but he trod it underfoot; not through an inborn, primitive egotism like that of Lemprière, but through an innate arrogance, an unalterable belief that fate was ever on his side. He had played so many tricks with fate, had mocked while taking its gifts so often, that, like the son who has flouted his indulgent father through innumerable times, he conceived that he should never be disinherited. It irked him that he should be fighting with a farmer, as he termed the seigneur of the Jersey isle; but there was in the event, too, a sense of relief, for he had a will for murder. Yesterday’s events were still fresh in his mind; and he had a feeling that the letting of Lemprière’s blood would cool his own and be some cure for the choler which the presence of these strangers at the court had wrought in him. There were better swordsmen in England than he, but his skill was various, and he knew tricks of the trade which this primitive Norman could never have learned. He had some touch of wit, some biting observation, and, as he neared the place of the encounter, he played upon the coming event with a mordant frivolity. Not by nature a brave man, he was so much a fatalist, such a worshipper of his star, that he had acquired an artificial courage which had served him well. The unschooled gentlemen with him roared with laughter at his sallies, and they came to the place of meeting as though to a summer feast. “Good-morrow, nobility,” said Leicester, with courtesy overdone, and bowing much too low. “Good-morrow, valentine,” answered Lemprière, flushing slightly at the disguised insult and rising to the moment. “I hear the crop of fools is short this year in Jersey, and through no fault of yours--you’ve done your best most loyally,” jeered Leicester, as he doffed his doublet, his gentlemen laughing in derision. “’Tis true enough, my lord, and I have come to find new seed in England, where are fools to spare; as I trust in Heaven one shall be spared on this very day for planting yonder.” He was eaten with rage, but he was cool and steady. He was now in his linen and small-clothes, and looked like some untrained Hercules. “Well said, nobility,” laughed Leicester, with an ugly look. “’Tis seed-time--let us measure out the seed. On guard!”