A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. But in his presence a wall of diffidence and timidity encompassed her. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. “It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me. I see. They don’t count, and I don’t care.
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