"Because I stand in no high favour with a man named Robert Ferguson." "Ah! a canting rogue. I know him well. And so you are not for the Duke?" "Nay, I am for the King," I answered boldly, having now made up my mind on that point. Again he laughed in merry fashion. "Oh, what a mocking whirligig is life!" said he. "Here walk I side by side with one with whom perchance I may cross swords in battle." "Aye, like enough," I answered grimly; "but, say, why stand you for the Duke?" "Well, now, it might well be for the same reason that you join King James; but, to tell honest truth, it is because his side doth seem to promise most of fine adventure. I love adventure; I was made for it; and some day I will make my name thereby, though not with sword--with pen." "Ah! you are a writer, then?" "Nay, but a sorry scribbler as yet; but, look you, some day I will write a book which shall assuredly set all England tingling in my praise. In short, I will be famous. Mark well those words, and think upon them in the years to come." "That I will," I answered wonderingly. Talking of many things, we reached at length the place where he must turn aside into the town, while I, who thought it wisdom to avoid the haunts of men, intended to go home along the shore. There he took my hand, and said: "I would crave one favour ere we part." "Aye, twenty, and they are granted if ’tis in my power to do it," I answered warmly. "Nay, ’tis but a little one," said he. "I would know the name of one who used his sword so well." "My name is Michael Fane; and may I, too, know that of one who saved my life?" "Dan Foe--a name unknown at present, but one which, as I told you, shall hereafter be as common and familiar as the King’s. And so, friend Fane, good night; and if we meet in battle, may we fight fair and bravely, like true Englishmen!" With that he grasped my hand again, then turned and sped towards the town. And thus it was that I met one who, as Defoe (a name he took long afterwards), is known to all of you as the writer of that wondrous history of a shipwrecked man upon a lonely island.[1] [1] The author of _Robinson Crusoe_ was out in the Monmouth Rebellion joining the Duke at Lyme. On leaving him I hurried on my way along the silent shore with strangest thoughts for company. Once someone shouted from the cliffs, and, yet again, some fellows hailed me from a boat which lay close inshore; but I heeded not, save to increase my speed, for, truly, my adventures for that night were all-sufficient. So, in the end, I reached The Havering without mishap, and there, tired out in body and in mind, I sought my bed, and slept like any dog. *CHAPTER XVII* *Tells how I had Speech of Ferguson*