“Nay, I can see nothing amiss in him,” replied Sang. [[19]]
“I’ll warrant me, a well-reclaimed falcon,” said Hepborne, taking him from his esquire; “ay, and the pet of some fair damsel too, if I may guess from his silken jesses. But hold—he reviveth. I will put him here in the bosom of my surcoat, and so foster the small spark of life that may yet remain in him.”
At this moment their attention was arrested by the sound of voices; and, by the meagre light that now remained, they could descry two ladies, mounted on palfreys, and followed by two or three male attendants, who came slowly from behind a wooded knoll, a little to the left of the path before them. Their eyes were thrown on the ground, and they seemed to be earnestly engaged in looking for something they had lost.
“Alas, my poor bird!” said one of the ladies, “I fear I shall never see thee more.”
“Mary, ’tis vain to look for him by this lack of light,” said an esquire.
“Do thou thy duty and seek for him, Master Turnberry,” said the second lady, in a haughty tone.
“A murrain on’t!” said the esquire again; “this comes of casting a hawk at a fowl at sundown.”
“I tell thee he must be hereabouts,” said the second lady again; “it was over these trees that I saw him stoop.”
“Stoop! ay, I’ll be sworn I saw him stoop,” said the esquire. “But an I saw him not dash his brains ’gainst one of those gnarled elms, my name is not Thomas, and I have no eyes for falconry. He’s amortised, I promise thee.”
“Silence, Master Turnberry,” said the same lady again; “thou givest thy tongue larger license than doth well beseem thee.”