“Dost hear me, boy! Back to thy crib! Dost wish to suck thy dam—the wolf? Back—” and a heavy stroke enforced the words. But no cry of pain was raised; it might have fallen on the wall, but for the loud laugh of joy, raised by the tormentor. The scuffle continued, when a weak, but firm voice was heard—
“Strike on, Sir Osmund; strike hard. I care not, for I will see my mother! This is a Bradshaigh’s resolution!”
“A Bradshaigh!” was the reply, “I have put horns upon the noble head of the family, and have written Sir William a cuckold, by marrying Mab!”
“Hold,—not a word,” returned the boy, in tones fierce and daring, “a few years make me a knight, and then chastisement for the fat and cowardly Welsh! Stand back, Sir Osmund, and let me see my mother.”
The voice had gradually heightened until all the boy had vanished, and the accents sounded manly and defying.
Lady Mabel shrieked, and exclaimed—
“My brave boy, the son of his father! Heaven bless and protect him, to plead my cause, in fitting time and mode, and assert his own rights!”
But the voice of the knight became louder and louder,
“Boy, minion! son of an ape! whose father pretended to bear the cross, when he should have hung for his villanies, on the highest in England! Go to my groom, and learn thy duty to my horse. He reports to me that you are refractory. Well, your wages are due. Take that, and that, and that,” and thrice the lash fell fiercely on the noble boy. “Well” he resumed, “dost hear thy mother’s voice? You know a mother’s shriek; that is her only tone! Oh fond fool! Well, you wish to see your mother, fillial fool: my strokes have given you a prettier face than a father’s art could patch up. Come beautiful child, and shew yourself to the proud gaze of a mother, on your cowardly father’s birthday.”
“Cowardly! He would have driven you, Sir Osmund, from this nest. Cowardly!”