“Be it thy duty,” said he to him, “to see that the young falcon be well bestowed by the way. Meseems him but a tender brauncher as yet; he must not be killed in the reclaiming. Let him be gently entreated, and kindly dealt with, until he do come readily to the hand.”
All being now in readiness, the troop moved forward; and Sir Patrick Hepborne, who wished to know something more of his newly-acquired page, made the boy ride beside him, that they might talk together by the way. Maurice displayed all the bashfulness of a stripling when he first mixes among men. He hung his head much; and although the knight’s eye could often detect his in the act of gazing at him, when he thought he was himself unobserved, yet he could never stand his master’s look in return, but dropped his head on his bosom. The knight, however, found him a lad of intelligence and good sense much beyond his years, and ere they had reached Edinburgh, the boy had perfectly succeeded in winning Sir Patrick’s good affections towards him.
On their arrival in the capital, Sir Patrick bestowed on the page a beautiful milk-white palfrey, of the most perfect symmetry of form and docility of temper, and added rich furniture of velvet and gold to complete the gift. He accoutred him also with a baldrick, and sword and dagger, of rare and curious workmanship—presents which seemed to have the usual effect of such warlike toys on young minds, when the boy is naturally proud of assuming the symbols of virility. He fervently kissed the generous hand that gave them, and blushed as he did so; then mounting his palfrey, he rode with the knight up the high Mercat Street, to the admiration of all those who beheld him. The very populace cheered them as they passed along, and all agreed that a handsomer knight or a more beautiful page had never graced the crown of their causeway.
Yet though the boy seemed to yield to the joy inspired by the possession of these new and precious treasures, his general aspect was rather melancholy than otherwise, and Hepborne that very evening caught him in tears. He dried his eyes in haste, however, as soon as he saw that he was observed, and lifting his long dark eye-lashes, beamed a smile of sunshine into the anxiously inquiring face of his master.
“What ails thee, Maurice?” said Hepborne, kindly taking his hand—“what ails thee, my boy? Thy hand trembles, and thy cheeks flush—nay, the very alabaster of thine unsullied [[175]]forehead partake of the crimson that overrunneth thy countenance. ’Tis the fever of home-leaving that hath seized thee, and thou weepest for thy mother, whom thou hast left behind thee; silly youth,” said he, chuckling him gently under the chin, “’tis the penalty thou must pay for thy naughtiness in leaving them. Doubtless, thou hast made them weep too. But say if thou wouldst yet return? for if thou wouldst, one of mine attendants shall wend with thee, and see thee safe to Werk; and——”
“Nay, good Sir Knight,” cried the boy, interrupting him, “though I weep for them, yet would I not return to Werk, but forward fare with thee.”
“Nay,” said Hepborne, “unless thou shouldst repent thee of thy folly, sweet youth, I shall leave thy disease to run its own course, and to find its own cure. And of a truth, I must confess, I should part with thee with sorrow.”
“Then am I happy,” cried the boy, with a sudden expression of delight: “Would that we might never part!”
“We shall never part whilst thou mayest fancy my company,” said Hepborne, kissing his cheek kindly, and infinitely pleased with the unfeigned attachment the boy already showed him. “But youth is fickle, and I should not choose to bind thy volatile heart longer than it may be willing; for it may change anon.”
The boy looked suddenly to heaven, crossed his hands over his breast, and said earnestly, “I am not one given to change, Sir Knight; thou shalt find me ever faithful and true to thee.”