“Who be it then?”
“He that made this elbow-piece for the suit that Queen Margaret ordered for the little King of Scots,” returned Tibble, producing an exquisite miniature bit of workmanship.
“Stephen Birkenholt! The fool’s nephew! Mine own prentice!”
“Yea, and the best worker in steel we have yet turned out. Since the sickness of last winter hath stiffened my joints and dimmed mine eyes, I had rather trust dainty work such as this to him than to myself.”
“Stephen! Tibble, hath he set thee on to this?”
“No, sir. We both know too well what becometh us; but when you were casting about for a mate for my young mistress, I could not but think how men seek far, and overlook the jewel at their feet.”
“He hath nought! That brother of his will give him nought.”
“He hath what will be better for the old Dragon and for your worship’s self, than many a bag of gold, sir.”
“Thou sayst truly there, Tib. I know him so far that he would not be the ingrate Jack to turn his back on the old master or the old man. He is a good lad. But—but—I’ve ever set my face against the prentice wedding the master’s daughter, save when he is of her own house, like Giles. Tell me, Tibble, deemst thou that the varlet hath dared to lift his eyes to the lass?”
“I wot nothing of love!” said Tibble, somewhat grimly. “I have seen nought. I only told your worship where a good son and a good master might be had. Is it your pleasure, sir, that we take in a freight of sea-coal from Simon Collier for the new furnace? His is purest, if a mark more the chaldron.”