Monsieur Sabron resembled to Laurence an intelligent ferret, with his pointed nose and shrewd, humorous eyes. Rather than talk of war and politics on the road, they discussed French and English mores, Sabron’s estate in Gascony, and horseflesh. Sabron commented admiringly on the two mounts Laurence had brought with him: Pembroke’s, and the Arab stallion. “What a waste to ride that beautiful creature into battle,” Sabron remarked of the Arab, and Laurence agreed; he had already decided to entrust it to Seward’s care. When they arrived in Oxford, he left Sabron at Governor Aston’s house, declining to stay there overnight, saying that he would rejoin the diplomatic party in the morning. The more he knew Aston the more he disliked the man, who reminded him of Catherine’s father; and it annoyed him to be in Aston’s debt for conveying Elizabeth home. He rode the thirteen miles to Clarke’s house, where he discovered Seward and Clarke in far better spirits than on those last days of May when Oxford had verged upon disaster.
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