“There was a little irregularity connected with my birth, which at the time of its occurrence I was not in a situation to adjust. Thenceforward a race of knaves and formalists have taken the wall of honest Dick, and have placed another upon the throne of England. But mark me, my son, the hour will strike when one who has grown old in the love of virtue will make good his estate, for he can show a line of kings upon both sides of his family. Upon the side of his dam is one Uthyr Pendragon, and of the seed of him sprang Arthur, who many years ago was a sovereign lord of Britain. It was many years ago, I say, but this Arthur was a good prince, a man of integrity, and his name is still mentioned favourably in his native country.” “When, sir, do you propose to make this attempt upon the throne of England?” At this question Sir Richard Pendragon assumed an air of magnificence, which did not consort very well with the hole in his scabbard and the condition of his hose and doublet. “All in a good season,” he said majestically. “If not to-day it will be to-morrow. The truth is the machinations of the wicked have left me somewhat light in purse, and have also blown upon my reputation. But I don’t doubt that some fair morning when the larks are singing, the first-born son of a sainted mother, for all his misfortune and his plaguy dry throat, will land at Dover and march to London city at the head of twenty thousand Christian gentlemen who have sworn to redress his injuries.” “May I be one of so fair a company!” said I, feeling the spell of his passion. “Amen to that, honest youth.” He spoke superbly. “Give old honest Dickon your hand upon it. There is no sort of doubt that I shall hold you to a vow that does such honour to your nation and your character. By the way, is that a ring I see upon your finger, honest youth?” “It is an heirloom of my house,” said I. “It was given by my father to my mother when he came to woo her.” The Englishman raised his eyebrows with an aspect of grave interest. “Was that so, my young companion? Given by your father to your mother--was that really the case? And set with agates, unless my eyes deceive me.” “Yes, they are agates.” “The sight of agates puts me in mind of a ring I had of my old friend, the Sophy. I used always to affect it on the middle finger of the right hand, just as you affect your own, my son, until it was coveted by my sainted mother upon a wet Ash Wednesday.” Still exhibiting the tokens of a lively regard, the Englishman began to fondle the ring as it lay on my finger. “An honest band of gold, of a very chaste device. It looks uncommonly choice on the hand of a gentleman. Does it not fit somewhat loosely, my young companion?” Speaking thus, and before I could suspect his intention, Sir Richard Pendragon drew the ring off my finger. He held it up to the light, and proceeded to examine it with the nicest particularity.