“Methinks I could bring thee an instance where this hatred hath been exchanged for love,” said the boy.
“Where? when? with whom?” cried the knight eagerly.
“Here—now—and with Sir John Grant towards Matilda or Bigla Cumin, as she is called in the country here, daughter and heiress of the big Lord of Glenchearnich,” replied the boy laughing.
“Pshaw!” cried the knight, with a disappointed air.
“Nay, dear master,” said the boy; “and if thou hast been able to get over this natural-born antipathy, why may not Bigla Cumin have been equally blessed by Heaven?”
“Ah!” cried the knight again, “would it might be so!”
“Wilt thou but give me leave to go to try what may be done?” demanded the boy. “Be assured I shall be better than most mediciners, for if I do no good, I shall take especial care to do no harm.”
“Kind boy, thou mayest e’en do thy best,” said the knight. “I well know thy zeal for thy master’s good; but were thy powers somewhat more equal to thy zeal, I should count more on the success of thine efforts.”
“Such as my poor powers may be, they shall be used to the utmost in thy service, Sir Knight,” said the boy. “Good night, then, so please thee; and farewell, it may be for some time, for I go on mine errand by to-morrow’s dawn, and the better I prosper, the longer, perchance, may be mine absence.”
“Go, and may the Blessed Virgin guide thee and give thee luck,” said the knight. “But see, boy, that thou bringest thine own person into no peril.”