England does hold thy limbs that bred the same; Flanders thy valour where it last was tried; The camp thy sorrow where thy body died; Thy friends thy want; the world thy virtue’s fame. Alas, if but Sir Walter had been content to be poet and gardener; but whereas the one part of him was content the other tugged at his heart-strings so that he was not happy. In gardening he had no rivals except the Dutch, that great little republic of the water, since as famous as England herself for great battles and adventures by sea. Now, quiet as the time was, and I was often alone with my lord, it was long before I found courage to speak to him of my birth. I know not why I was so wary in approaching it, but somewhere in my heart I had a warning that it would be unwelcome matter to him; so that often the words rose to my lips and fell silent before I could say them. It was indeed close upon a year from the time I had seen the monk that at last I dared to touch upon the subject. It was one evening when we had been gardening together, and tired after that pleasant toil we sat beneath the myrtle trees. My lord’s brow for a little while was unfurrowed with care, and his eagle eyes looked at me softened through the mists of his smoke. “My lord—” I began, and then could go no further. “What is it, Wat?” he asked kindly. “My lord, I am troubled about the question of my birth. To be nameless where every one hath a name is no light matter to bear.” “Hath any one reproached you?” he asked, and his eyes flashed. “If any hath I should not have come even to you for redress,” I said, fingering my sword. “Ah,” he said, and he looked well pleased. “There spoke no nameless boy!” I breathed hard at the thought of what his speech meant. I was in act indeed to ask him if I were truly a Fitzmaurice and of noble birth when his next words held me, and, as it proved, the silence between us was to last to the edge of the grave for one of us. “Be content, boy, for a little while,” he said, and his voice was of great sweetness. “You are no nameless child; but let it be my secret for a time. In time I shall reveal it. If I told you now it might mean that we should part company.” “Never that,” I said. “Never that, I pray,” he rejoined, adding—“because I love you, Wat.” Then after a few minutes of silence he went on: “Your secret is left to no such blind chance as may befall such an one as I. If aught happen to me, Master Boyle holds it safe, and will reveal it in proper time.” “You will not tell me?” I broke out. “To have it known would bring me some steps nearer the Tower,” he said, “and I wend that way already.” “Then keep it silent forever,” I cried out. “Nay; that would be hardly fair to you. Besides, you forget that Master Boyle hath it.” “I like not Master Boyle.” “Nor do I, overmuch, Wat. He is one of your still, secret men, with the lawyer’s craft and cunning. What should there be between us?”