Constance, extremely amused, acted on this recommendation also. Edmund gave another growl.
“Nay, then you must needs slap him!” was the third piece of advice given.
Constance laughingly suggested that the child should do it for her. Little Roger jumped up, boxed his brother’s ears in a decided manner, and finally, burying his small hands in Edmund’s light curly hair, gave him a dose of sensation which would have roused a dormouse.
“Is he in this wise every morrow?” asked Constance.
“Master Gaoler bringeth alway a wet mop,” said little Roger confidentially. “Wake up, Nym! If thou fallest to sleep again, I must tweak thee by the nose!”
This terrible threat seemed to be nearly as effectual as the mop. Edmund stretched himself lazily, and in very sleepy accents desired to know what his brother could possibly mean by such wanton cruelty.
“Where is thy breeding, churl, to use such thewis (manners) with a lady?” demanded little Roger in a scandalised voice.
“Lady!—where is one?” murmured Edmund, whose eyes were still shut.
“Methinks thou art roused now, Nym,” said Constance. “But when thou shalt be a knight, I pity thy squire. Haste, lad, rise and busk thee in silence, but make as good speed as ever thou canst Roger, see he turneth not back to sleep. I go to thy sisters.”
“Nay, but he will, an’ you pluck him not out of bed!” said little Roger, who evidently felt himself unfit to cope with the emergency.