"Stay thy tongue. Yet I bethink me now," said she, looking earnestly at him, "thou art from my cousin: a messenger from him, I trow."
"Nay," said the ambiguous hind, "'tis from other guess folk, belike; but—who—I—Like enough that the Lady Eleanor will go a fortune-hunting with such a simpleton as I am."
"Go with thee?" said the lady in amazement.
"Why, ay—I was bid to bring you to the Fairies' Chapel, beyond the waterfall in the wood by Healey, and that ere to-morrow night. But I am a doomed and a dying man, for how should the Lady Eleanor Byron obey this message?"
Here the unhappy miller began to weep; but the lady was dumb with astonishment.
"Forgive me, lady, in this matter; but I was in a manner bound to accomplish mine errand."
"And what if I should accompany thee? Wouldest thou be my champion, my protector from onslaught and evil?"
Here he opened his huge grey eyes to such an alarming extent that Eleanor had much ado to refrain from smiling.
"If you will go, lady, I shall be a living man; and you"—a dead woman, probably he would have said; but the denunciation did not escape his lips, and the joy and surprise of the wary miller were beyond utterance.
"But whence thy message, friend?" said the deluded maiden, eyeing him suspiciously.