“How long have you been in my service, Bates?”
“Five years this month, your grace.”
“And you are tired of it, eh?”
“Your grace knows that I am not. I have served you faithfully in all things....”
“But you think the time has come when you may pick and choose the things in which you will serve me still. Bates, I think you have been in my service too long.”
“Your grace!”
“I may be mistaken. But I shall require proof before believing it. Fortunately for you, it lies within your power to afford me that proof. I advise you to do so.”
He looked at Bates coldly, and Bates looked back at him in dread. The little rascal fidgeted with his neckcloth, and his lean knuckly hand for a moment caressed his throat. The gesture almost suggested that his thoughts were on the rope which he might be putting about that scraggy neck of his.
“Your grace,” he cried on a note of appeal, “there is no service I will not perform to prove my devotion. Command me to do anything, your grace—anything. But not ... not this.”
“I am touched, Bates, by your protestations.” His grace was coldly supercilious. “Unfortunately, this is the only service I desire of you at the moment.”