"Why, then, the general will have a care that he comes to no harm," said Stubbs, "seeing that an English gentleman is of more value than many mere Irish."
"In his own conceit," said that sweet and tunable voice, and the lady came into the room, attended as before by her ancient dame of the sour visage. "Good morrow, Master Rudd."
"Good morrow, Mistress Sheila," said I, shooting a look at her as I made my bow.
A flush mantled her cheek at this hearing of her name.
"I brook no plots nor complots between you two," said she. "I bade your servant attend you as a grace, Master Rudd."
"For which you have my hearty thanks, madam," said I. "The conversation of your servitor is a child's babble, and the reading of your books breeds only discontent."
"You have but to give your word, and you are free to range this castle, sir," said she.
"'Twould be but to beat my wings against the bars of my cage," said I.
"A bird, quotha!" said she, laughing. "His feathers are ruffled, and he stints his song."
"He has no mate, madam," said I; and after more bandying of words, she departed again.