"Groaning—eh! art thou sick?" he asked.
"Yes—of life!"
"Faith! I thought it was the mulligrubs. God-den to thee, Konrad of Saltzberg—whilk I believe is thy title—'tis long since we have spoken; yet, methinks, thou mayest still remember me."
"I do, for mine enemy!" replied Konrad, whose indignation rose at the voice.
"Cock and pie! say not that," replied Ormiston; "for may the great devil spit me, if I owe thee any ill-will, or mean thee aught like mischief!"
"Then for what end dost thou seek me now? I have endured here exceeding misery. Who is there that has known sorrow without some relief—despair without hope—who, but I? An irresistible current of misfortunes has hurried me on, and—I am here—here, where I am almost forgetting the use of my limbs, while life is in its bloom; yea, and the very tone of my own voice. What have I done among ye, sirs, in this land of Scotland, to be treated thus?"
"By Jove! I can scarcely tell; but there are those about Holyrood who say, that keeping thee caged up here, is only feeding what ought to be hanged to feed the corbies; yet, if thou wouldest attain that liberty for which thou longest, do as I bid thee, and thou shalt escape to thine beloved Norway—God amend it! for the flavour of its sawdust bannocks and sour ale are yet fresh in my memory."
"Thou hast some selfish end of thine own to serve in this."
"By cock and pie! Sir Konrad, thou measurest thy friends by a low standard, especially such a long-limbed one as I. Thou canst not well be worse. Stay here, and thou wilt assuredly be hanged, whenever honest Gilbert Balfour, the Master of the Household, grows tired of feeding thee; follow me, and thou mayest escape."
"Thou sayest true; I cannot be worse; lead on—I follow thee!"