And so he did, and charmingly. He was full of life and anecdote. He was on his way to London shortly, where, he said, his pack of small accomplishments would find their most profitable market. ‘For,’ said he, ‘in all the world it is the little things gain great rewards, since man, being little, judges by little. But greatness must be content even with itself, since it cannot be content with little.’ He urged Brion to come with him; to persuade his impossible kinsman to let him go; to throw off the shackles of imagined duty which kept him wasting his young life among boors in a rustic isolation, and take that place in the world to which his gentle breeding and physical graces entitled him. He was frankly complimentary: he had obviously taken a fancy to the young fellow. He even hinted to him, though with a subtle delicacy, that he might find his bar sinister _no_ bar to his social advancement, but rather the contrary. And Brion understood without resentment. He had long decided his own attitude towards that question: for one thing to accept it as, virtually, an open secret; for another, to refuse to suffer for it in any way to himself, since honour was a matter of conscience, and not of arbitrary bestowal. But he only thanked his new friend, and answered that, like that friend himself, he must win his spurs before he took his reputation to market. ‘And so thou shalt,’ said the other admiringly. ‘Thou shalt carry thy quest knight-errantly, and strike for England’s name. Would I could go with thee to bruit her virtues. But the time may come. I see a vision in the West of a land great for adventure--the arena, it may hap, where shall be fought to a final settlement our quarrel with idolatrous Spain. Shall we leave all this and sail there together? Who knows what may come to pass. But first--the spurs. Is England, I am fain to ask, thine only love? A paladin so devout should wear a lady’s sleeve about his helm.’ Brion gave a little gasp, and the blood rushed to his heart. He had never yet spoken his secret to living soul. Should he break that silence now? He was suddenly and irresistibly tempted, such surety of earnest faith and sympathy he felt in this young soldier. Before he could resolve, the words were out of him:-- ‘Mayhap I do.’ ‘That’s well,’ said Raleigh. ‘No such incitement to chivalry in all the world. She’s sweet and fair, I know. Her name, that thy boon comrade may hold it housed and honoured in his heart!’ The young man hesitated one moment, then turned and looked the other glowingly in the eyes. ‘Joan Medley,’ he said. ‘Joan Medley!’ repeated Raleigh, and struck his breast: ‘There it lies shrined.’ ‘You know her--have heard of her, perchance?’ asked Brion, the blood flushing his skin now that the murder was out. But the soldier shook his head. ‘Is she of this side? My home is _Fardel_ in Cornwood, east of Plymouth; and even so I am but late returned to it, having been long in France and the Low Countries.’