Harold Lamb

“ Only one physic will keep a tongue from wagging. His name and time of setting forth?”
“The lad is Master Thorne of Orfordnesse. On the morrow at dawn he hies him hence.”
“Then—” D'Alaber tapped a lean finger on the hilt of his poinard and glanced at Durforth, whose eyes, so dark that they appeared to be without expression, were fixed on him reflectively—“we must try phlebotemy, a trifle of blood letting. And now, messers, I deliver me of my charge.”
Unfastening one of the laces of his doublet, he drew out two papers folded and sealed with the royal signet of Spain. ”

“ Nay, how will you keep this lad of Edward's from spying upon us? Had you forgotten him?”
Passing by the long mirror D'Alaber paused to adjust the clasp of his cloak.
“Memory is a good servant but a poor mistress. 'Tis my part to remember this unfortunate youth, yours to forget him. Study your part, Durforth, and remember that many an actor hath fallen foul of the pit by mistaking his cue.” ”

“ Now, lacking any one to take his part, and with Edward unapproachable, a word from Stratford could disgrace him or restore him to honest service.
“Your father, sirrah, is Master Robert Thorne who once rendered yeoman aid to his country by bringing out of Spain a mappamundi [1] faithfully drawn. He is known as the Cosmographer, and he dwells on the coast at Orfordnesse.”
Again the squire bowed assent.
“You have a reputation. 'Tis said you use a sword like a fiend out of ——, which is to say with skill but little forethought. You have been in more broils than any dozen of your fellows. ”

“ In this guise he was discovered by his friends who buried the body.”
“'Twas fairly fought between us, my lord, in the boat. He had the worst. It would have been foul shame to throw an honorable foeman into the water.” ”