"Now, by St. John of Beverley!" cried Copeland, "were you the foremost king in Christendom, I should not longer brook delay to indulge your humour."
And throwing himself upon the royal Scot, the Northumbrian grasped his vanquished foe with a hand of iron.
"Now yield," said he sternly.
"I do yield, since with me it may not better be," answered the king; "but I swear to you, by my father's soul, that I would rather die by your hand."
"Tush, sir king," said Copeland compassionately; "you will think otherwise on the morrow. Life has its sweets."
"Not with hope and liberty gone," said the royal prisoner. "But conduct me to your queen."
"Sire," said Copeland, "you are my prisoner as much as if I were prince or peer, and I will conduct you where I think proper, and to no other place, save at the command of King Edward, my lord."
Copeland now summoned his men, and, having mounted the Scottish king on one horse, was about to spring on another when I accosted him.
"Whither," asked I, "are you carrying your captive?"
"Boy," answered Copeland significantly, "I believe that is a secret your tongue will be all the less likely to tell if not committed to your ears. Adieu!"