"Because her Grace is here," answered Robin with sublime simplicity.
Sir Amyas barked again. It seemed he liked this way of talk. For a moment or two his eyes searched Robin—hard, narrow eyes like a dog's; he looked him up and down.
"Where are your drugs, sir?"
Robin smiled.
"A herbalist does not need to carry drugs," he said. "They grow in every hedgerow if a man has eyes to see what God has given him."
"That is true enough. I would we had more talk about God His Majesty in this household, and less of Popish trinkets and fiddle-faddle…. Well, sir; do you think you can cure her ladyship?"
"I have no opinion on the point at all, sir. I do not know what is the matter with her—beyond what Mr. Bourgoign has told me," he added hastily, remembering the supposed situation.
The soldier paid no attention. Like all slow-witted men, he was following up an irrelevant train of thought from his own last sentence but one.
"Fiddle-faddle!" he said again. "I am sick of her megrims and her vapours and her humours. Has she not blood and bones like the rest of us? And yet she cannot take her food nor her drink, nor sleep like an honest woman. And I do not wonder at it; for that is what she is not. They will say she is poisoned, I dare say…. Well, sir; I suppose you had best see her; but in my presence, remember, sir; in my presence."
Robin's spirits sank like a stone…. Moreover, he would be instantly detected as a knave (though that honestly seemed a lesser matter to him), if he attempted to talk medically in Sir Amyas' presence; unless that warrior was truly as great a clod as he seemed. He determined to risk it. He bowed.