“They are, sire.”
“We are glad to hear it, very glad to hear it, indeed, Sir Richard. And who have you with you?”
“An old friend—an injured man, sire; his name is Harmer, the miller of Darlington.”
“Ah, indeed! And I am glad to see the worthy miller, who is no doubt deep in market prices, and reeking with floury learning, eh?”
“Not very deep, sire,” said the miller, gravely. “I come here as a complainant to the fountain of justice as well as of honour.”
“And I too,” said old Sir Richard.
“I am sorry to hear it; but you had better go to Lord Bute—you know Bute, our new attorney-general, Sir Richard?—a very clever fellow. Go to him, and say we send you.”
“If you will deign to read this, sire,” said the miller, presenting a paper to him.
“Yes, oh, yes—at our leisure.”
“Now, if it pleases you, sire. There are but four lines upon that paper; but if it possesses you with our great grief it may prevent bloodshed.”