“Welcome back to England and to London, fair sir,” said the citizen, seating himself, and addressing the elder of the two, while he helped himself to a cup of wine. “You have come in the very moment of time to serve your country; but, as my trusty messenger doubtless informed you, I have much to say of a private nature; and this place being somewhat public, and the drawers, moreover, being parlous spies, I would fain conduct you to my own house that we may converse more freely.” “Thanks, good Fitzarnulph,” replied the other, nodding easily as he raised a wine-cup to his lips; “I arede your meaning. But, in sober earnest, I am free to confess that, the business being of such a nature as your trusty messenger gave me to understand, I see not how it can have other than a disastrous issue. Credit me,” added he, looking round cautiously to assure himself that he was not overheard, “it is vain to expect the country to come around you unless your enterprise be headed by a man bearing a great and renowned name, and one about which clusters a halo of associations to dazzle the multitude.” “Faint heart never won fair lady,” said Fitzarnulph, “and men must run some risks in regenerating a nation. Besides, there will not be wanting such a leader as you picture, if once it is known that there exists a ladder by which such a man may climb to a splendid eminence.” “In the days of my youth,” said the other, almost sadly, “I had great faith in the Lord Hugh de Moreville. By St. John of Beverley! he was a great man, and of high lineage, but he made a false step and fell; and I could almost weep when I think how the feathers drooped from that day, one by one, from the De Moreville eagle.” “Wherefore not recall Louis of France, a prince who has both the will and the power to aid us?” asked Fitzarnulph, cautiously. “By the Holy Cross!” replied the other, striking the table in his enthusiasm; “as soon would I consent to invoke the aid of the Sultan of Egypt, or the King of the Tartars. No foreign prince for me, least of all a Frank, and of all Franks, least of all a Capet.” “The Lord Robert Fitzwalter yet lives,” suggested Fitzarnulph, in a significant tone. “He lives, indeed,” said the other, half scornfully; “but he lives with a reputation much the worse for the wear. The man who played towards England the part which Count Julian played towards Spain is not the man to head Englishmen when hazarding everything to regenerate their country. Therefore let us speak no more of Robert Fitzwalter.” “By St. Thomas! fair sir,” exclaimed Fitzarnulph, testily, “you are somewhat difficult to please in the choice of a leader; and, since the names I have mentioned are so ungrateful to your ear, I know not who is capable of assuming the truncheon of command in this great enterprise--for great it is destined to be--unless, indeed, it be a Norman lord, young in years, but already well known to fame--I mean Walter Merley.”