‘Love her--ha! As the flower loves the sun, the parched soul water, the woman her way, the kid its milky dam. To carry England’s fame? Aye, thou dear gentle--through all the lands, like a sweet western gale that rains life and health on the dearth it visits. She shall make conquests, ha! but such as the liberal light makes of cramped darkness. We’ll go together; teach the world to know her for what she is; so sing her sweet and pastoral praises that whole peoples shall lay down their arms for very love, and yield themselves her subjects and her slaves. Earth shall surrender to her beauty, as willingly as it yields its frozen winters to spring with her daffodils and milk-white hawthorns. For where England sets her feet, does not the primrose break? She brings the atmosphere of her free and equitable fields into where’er she enters; and straight from that lovely invasion are born the darling wind-flower that is Our Lady’s child, and cowslips known for St Peter’s keys to Heaven, and wild hyacinth, our own St George’s bells that fought and slew the beast, and radiant mary-buds that cure most ills. These shall spring up, where’er we go, like Thebes its towers, to our song, and win the soils we tread to England. Or if we die, we die for England’s sake, and take possession with our fruitful bodies. All lands where English blood is shed and England’s sons lie buried are in part fiefs to England; for there each grave becomes a plat of English mould, rich breeding-ground of truth and chivalry, fair play, honour to the better man, forbearance in strength--all qualities summed up in this, the heart to conquer and the hate to pain. O, it is good to live for England, but sweeter still to die and be her prolific dust! Peerless, in truth, our fair mother--I take the word, sweet soul, from thee, as I would have thee take me with thee in the sharing of thy quest.’ He ceased; his voice fell; but silence still seemed to ripple on his lips, while the rapt exaltation in his eyes died slowly out. Raleigh applauded, with a somewhat kindling vision:-- ‘Well sung!’ he said: ‘Here is another as passionate lover of his land.’ But the practical Sheriff snorted, finding little to understand in these dithyrambics. ‘I know naught of your cowslips and wind-flowers,’ he grumbled. ‘A general were best to take wheat and barley with him, where he foresees a long besiegement, and sow them in the open ground. And as to atmospheres, for all I’m a loyal Devon man, I’d liefer chance the fortunes of another climate than take my own with me.’ Raleigh laughed out: ‘O, thou rare Dick!’ and Brion, fearing to follow his example, rose, and went to Clerivault, and, gripping his hand, looked in his face with a whispered word:-- ‘It shall be share and share alike, friend, when the time comes.’