Harold, just then, had happily uncovered the simmering kettle.
"Yes," said Sir Richard, "art hungry, good doctor?"
"In sooth, an I be not, sir knight, thou mayst call me a fustian shove-groat shilling! marry! marry! and were not such a ride as I've had to-day full fatiguing to a gentleman of my avoirdupois?"
Well, after contemplating the widespread devastation which the amiable doctor wrought upon the viands set before him, right willingly would anyone have yielded to him the palm of gluttony—though it must be said of Sir Richard that his own appetite was something not below the average. And how the man could drink, too! It seemed to Sir Richard that he would never have done with pouring their hard-fetched wine into his gullet. He might appropriately have been girded with iron hoops and set aside as a filled hogshead when the last drop trickled within his vast interior. A flabby esophagus could never have been attributed to the good doctor, withal.
But he warmed up famously under the wine's genial influence, and regaled his hosts throughout the evening with many a merry tale. Sir Richard misliked him not at all; and, before the good doctor set up his thunderous snoring before the pleasing warmth of the blaze, the young knight had secured his promise to remain with de Claverlok till he was safe on the road to health. It may be said further, too, that he was a gainer of the half of Sir Richard's remaining nobles because of the bargain.
The young knight passed a sleepless night, interspersed with fanciful dreams wrought around the circumstance of his new-discovered ancestry. He seemed to be always alone and lonely, sitting upon a lofty eminence, with a ray of dazzling white light, ever broadening, sweeping from where he sat into illimitable space. The vast area thus brilliantly illumined ever seemed peopled with a countless multitude of kneeling beings; reminding him of the glimmering sun of evening lying softly upon the woolly backs of innumerable sheep.
It chanced that Sir Richard was the last member of their little company to be abroad the next morning, and when he came out into the sunshine Harold and Thomas, who had been whispering together, dropped in concert to their knees. Then Sir James Tyrrell, now more than ever bent and gray looking, drew toward him, limping around the corner of the sick knight's hut. He bowed to Sir Richard after a grave and courtly fashion, and, when the young knight extended his hand, saluted it deferentially with his lips. Not anyone could have been more abject in his obsequiousness than the fat doctor from Bannockburn. He begged Sir Richard but to lay some command upon him so that he might give proof of his devotion to his cause and person. To the young knight it seemed to be the beginning of the fulfillment of his visions. Only good de Claverlok and unconquerable Isabel remained the same; the which resulted in Sir Richard deriving the greater pleasure from their companionship.
All of the while it was to be remarked that shrewd Tyrrell's eyes bent close upon Sir Richard's every action. By reaching out to him a taste of sovereignty, he felt that he was tempting him to desire it in a greater portion.
Sir Richard divined that it was to be a silent duel between them; and he was bound to confess to himself that he was already becoming conscious of the tightening of the net about him. He was becoming fearful that the master politician might win.
It was like a transitory release from the clutch of an unseen, iron hand to get within the larger hut and enjoy a talk with de Claverlok and Isabel. Though still pitifully weak, it was clearly to be seen that Sir Richard's faithful friend and squire was now leaving his illness behind him.