The door was burst open, and Lady Mabel beheld her eldest son (a youth of fifteen) dragged in by the Welsh knight, her husband; his face was bloody, and there were marks of a livid hue on his cheeks and neck.
“Mother,” exclaimed the knight, laughing at his blasphemy,—“mother, behold your son.” He approached, bowed his unwieldy form in mock reverence at her feet, whilst his sinister eye attempted to express sarcastic admiration and love. His hair hung, matted, over his Welsh outline of a face, and his ill-formed mouth, in smiling, became a hideous gash—gash!
The boy rushed to his mother, and fondly placed his hand beneath her chin, to raise her countenance from the knight, kneeling in mockery. She kissed his forehead, and with her lips wiped off the blood, and hugged him to her bosom. He was a noble boy, and never had he crouched to his mother’s husband.
“Mother, now I am safe.”
“It is the fool’s birth-day,” said Sir Osmund, as he left his recumbent posture, “yes, it is, my sweet Mab. Rejoice, rejoice; shall I send my jester to help thee to a laugh?”
“If in doing so” replied the spirited boy, “you send away yourself.”
Once more he was struck to the ground, by the enraged knight.
“Oh! Sir Osmund”—exclaimed Mabel, “save him! I shall tutor him to love thee fondly!”
“That would be a difficult task, dear mother” answered the boy, with great indifference, as he arose and fixed a stern look of defiance upon Sir Osmund.