"They want you for Tyburn there." "They want me for the gallows here," said Buonespoir.

Rolling a piece of spiced meat in his hand, he stuffed it into his mouth and chewed till the grease came out of his eyes, and took eagerly from a servant a flagon of malmsey and a dish of ormers.
"Hush, chew thy tongue a minute!" said the Seigneur, suddenly starting and laying a finger beside his nose.

"Hush!" he said again, and looked into the flicker of the candle by him with half-shut eyes.
"May I have no rushes for a bed, and die like a rat in a moat, if I don't get thy pardon too of the Queen, and bring thee back to Jersey, a thorn in the side of De Carteret for ever! He'll look upon thee assoilzied by the Queen, spitting fire in his rage, and no canary or muscadella in his cellar." It came not to the mind of either that this expedition would be made at cost to themselves.

They had not heard of Don Quixote, and their gifts were not imitative.

They were of a day when men held their lives as lightly as many men hold their honour now; when championship was as the breath of life to men's nostrils, and to adventure for what was worth having or doing in life the only road of reputation.
Buonespoir was as much a champion in his way as Lempriere of Rozel.