“Once thou wast in favour,” said Ambrose. “Methought thou couldst have availed thyself of it to speak for the Lord Cardinal.” “What? A senseless cur whom he kicked from him,” said Randall. “’Twas that took all spirit from me, boy. I, who thought he loved me, as I love him to this day. To send me to be sport for his foes! I think of it day and night, and I’ve not a gibe left under my belt!” “Nay,” said Ambrose, “it may have been that the Cardinal hoped to secure a true friend at the King’s ear, as well as to provide for thee.” “Had he but said so—” “Nay, perchance he trusted to thy sharp wit.” A gleam came into Hal’s eyes. “It might be so. Thou always wast a toward lad, Ambrose, and if so, I was cur and fool indeed to baulk him.” Therewith one of the other fools danced back exhibiting a silver crown that had just been flung to him, mopping and mowing, and demanding when Patch would have wit to gain the like. Whereto Hal replied by pointing to Ambrose and declaring that that gentleman had given him better than fifty crowns. And that night, Sir Thomas told Ambrose that the Quipsome one had recovered himself, had been more brilliant than ever and had quite eclipsed the other fools. On the next opportunity, Ambrose contrived to pack in his cloak-bag, the cap and loose garment in which his uncle was wont to cover his motley. The Court was still at Windsor; but nearly the whole of Sir Thomas’s stay elapsed without Ambrose being able to find his uncle. Wolsey had been very ill, and the King had relented enough to send his own physician to attend him. Ambrose began to wonder if Hal could have found any plea for rejoining his old master; but in the last hour of his stay, he found Hal curled up listlessly on a window seat of a gallery, his head resting on his hand. “Uncle, good uncle! At last! Thou art sick?”