‘O sky! Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak?’” “Bravo!” cried the ex-chief, too delighted to find a comrade so well acquainted with Shakspeare’s sonnets to heed the little injustice Clarence had done the sky, in accusing it of a treachery its black clouds had by no means deserved. “Bravo, sir; and now, my palfrey against your steed,--trot, eh? or gallop?” “Trot, if it must be so,” said Clarence, superciliously; “but I am a few paces before you.” “So much the better,” cried the jovial chief. “Little John’s mettle will be the more up: on with you, sir; he who breaks into a canter loses; on!” And Clarence slightly touching his beautiful steed, the race was begun. At first his horse, which was a remarkable stepper, as the modern Messrs. Anderson and Dyson would say, greatly gained the advantage. “To the right,” cried the ci-devant gypsy, as Linden had nearly passed a narrow lane which led to the domain of the ex-king. The turn gave “Little John” an opportunity which he seized to advantage; and, to Clarence’s indignant surprise, he beheld Cole now close behind, now beside, and now--now--before! In the heat of the moment he put spurs rather too sharply to his horse, and the spirited animal immediately passed his competitor, but--in a canter! “Victoria!” cried Cole, keeping back his own steed. “Victoria! confess it!” “Pshaw,” said Clarence, petulantly. “Nay, sir, never mind it,” quoth the retired sovereign; “perhaps it was but a venial transgression of your horse, and on other ground I should not have beat you.” It is very easy to be generous when one is quite sure one is the victor. Clarence felt this, and, muttering out something about the sharp angle in the road, turned abruptly from all further comment on the subject by saying, “We are now, I suppose, entering your territory. Does not this white gate lead to your new (at least new to me) abode?”