Nicholas Blount roared: “Omits, quotha! But what is mine is mine, rogue, though there be a thousand popinjays could convert the thing to their own more profitable usage. Wherefore I say, who takes my opportunity steals; wherefore I say, this Raleigh is a thief of opportunity.” “Instance, instance!” cried the two young gentlemen, crowing; and Greville bawled for the drawer to bring wine. The soldier grunted: “I’m no man for equivoque; I hold by what I say. You shall hear and judge between us. This Walter, sirs----” “A very proper courtier of his inches,” said Greville. “Your friend, sir,” answered Blount sarcastically; “and mine--God quit us of all such allies. He was my friend once, and took the privileges. There was little he would not take, including the wall, of any man. To do him justice, a sweet fighting Hector, full of courage as of grace. He was just home from Ireland when we met last year--fresh from carving of the Kerns. Yet a hand like milk. Nothing would ever stick to it but gold. I cry you mercy, gentles. He was my friend, I say.” Greville broke into laughter, and Sidney smiled, his lips twitching. “_Castigo te non quod_--eh, master clerk?” said the latter. “Perchance he chastised the Captain for very love.” “You shall hear,” said Blount grimly. “A proper courtier, quoth Master Greville--a very proper courtier. I doubt it not. How looked he when you saw him last?” “It was at Whitehall,” said Greville. “You know the man--the mirror of fashion, the prince of wit, the pink of assurance. One noon he met the Queen just stepping from her closet. ‘What time is it, good sir?’ quoth she. ‘What time your Highness pleases,’ he answered. ‘Then,’ says her Majesty, ‘I will have it the hour when men speak truth.’ ‘Alas, madam!’ says Raleigh, ‘do you seek a pretext for destroying me?’ ‘What pretext, sir?’ she asks. ‘Why,’ says he, ‘the enforced confession of my hopeless passion for a Queen.’” The soldier snorted alarmingly. “I warrant he’d rehearsed it, preening and curling before his glass,” he said. “Alack!” said Sidney; “his hair curls naturally--the worse for sleeker heads.” “How went he?” said Blount--“a painted popinjay?” “Always in silk and velvet,” answered Greville demurely--“white for choice, and his doublet jewelled in the seams. He becomes his dress, in sooth; knows how to shadow with ambrosial fleece the high pale culture of his forehead; wears his sword as if he used it; hangs his cloak----” The soldier roared out: