"The knave has been speaking treason of the king's highness," said the
tall man, whose doublet and hose of the finest green cloth, as well as
the how and quiverful of arrows at his back, proclaimed him an archer--"
and therefore we turned him out!"
"And you did well, Captain Barlow," cried the host.
"Call me rather the Duke of Shoreditch," rejoined the tall archer; "for
since his majesty conferred the title upon me, though it were but in jest,
when I won this silver bugle, I shall ever claim it. I am always
designated by my neighbours in Shoreditch as his grace; and I require
the same attention at your hands. To-morrow I shall have my
comrades, the Marquises of Clerkenwell, Islington, Hogsden, Pancras,
and Paddington, with me, and then you will see the gallant figure we
shall cut."
"I crave your grace's pardon for my want of respect," replied the host.
"I am not ignorant of the distinction conferred upon you at the last
match at the castle butts by the king. But to the matter in hand. What
treason hath Mark Fytton, the butcher, been talking?"
"I care not to repeat his words, mine host," replied the duke; "but he
hath spoken in unbecoming terms of his highness and Mistress Anne
Boleyn.
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