“I tried to stop him, but I couldn’t.”
“Thou didst not feel the same pity, then, for the deer?”
“No, my lord, because I thought dogs were made to hunt deer, and deer to be hunted.”
“Thou art quite right, my lad,” said he of Warwick, “and the other lad is a simpleton—I was going to say a chicken-hearted simpleton, but he was brave enough when his own neck seemed in danger, nor does he fear much for his back now—
“What dost thou say, boy?”
“My lord, if I have offended you, I refuse not to pay with my back.”
“Get ready for the scourge, then,” said the earl his lord, half smiling, and evidently trying his courage, “unless thou wilt say thou art sorry for thy deed.”
“I am ready, my lord. I would say anything I could say without lying, rather than offend thee, but what am I to do? Let me bear what I have to bear.”
“Nay,” said the earl, “it may not be. My brother of Warwick, canst thou not forgive him? I will send thee two good hounds in the place of poor Bruno. Dost thou not see the lad has sat in the school of Saint Francis, who pitied and loved everything, great and small, as Adam de Maresco, my good friend at Oxford, tells me, and so all God’s creatures loved him, and came at his call—the birds, nay, the fishes?”
“Dost thou believe all this, my boy?” said he of Warwick.