“How long will my uncle keep thee here?” asked Edmund sympathisingly.
“Till my father comes, unless the foolish wench should go and die. She brought it on me, the peevish girl. She is always after me when I want her least.”
“Yea, is not she contracted to thee?”
“So they say; but at least this puts a stop to my being plagued with her—do what they may to me. There’s an end to it, if I hang for it.”
“They would never hang thee.”
“None knows what you traitor folk of Nevil would do to a loyal house,” growled Leonard.
“Traitor, saidst thou,” cried Edmund, clenching his fists. “’Tis thy base Somerset crew that be the traitors.”
“I’ll brook no such word from thee,” burst forth Leonard, flying at him.
“Ha! ha!” laughed Edmund even as they grappled. “Who is the traitor forsooth? Why, ’tis my father who should be King. ’Tis white-faced Harry and his Beauforts—”
The words were cut short by a blow from Leonard, and the warder presently found the two boys rolling on the floor together in hot contest.