Sir William was a fine, red-faced, white-headed old gentleman, with something of the old soldier in his air, and (when he came to speak), a good deal of him in his words. He sat in a great chair, with one foot swaddled on a stool before him; and the oaths with which he greeted each twinge as it came, boded ill for us his prisoners.
He kept us waiting a long time at the dimly lit end of the hall, while he spoke to his guest. At last he ordered us to be led forward. As we advanced, and their eyes fell on us, each uttered an exclamation. I kept my eye on Captain Merriman, and watched the storm that gathered on his brow, and the crimson flush that sprung to his cheeks. It was plain he knew me again, and I was content.
As for Sir Ludar, he stared listlessly at his guardian till it should please his worship to speak.
His worship began with a string of oaths.
“Why, what means this, sirrah! How came you here, you vagabond Irish whelp, in this company? Speak, or by my beard, I’ll—I’ll—”
He did not say what he would do, for his foot gave him a twinge which demanded of him every word he could spare.
“I have left Oxford, Sir Guardian,” said Ludar, “I liked not the place, or the ways of the place, or the Welshman, my keeper; and as for my present company,” said he, turning to me, “’tis good enough for me. It was I shot the deer, not he; and so pray bid these fellows loose him.”
At this the angry old soldier nearly went off in a fit. He flourished his stick towards the offender, and even tried to rise from his chair, a proceeding which brought on fresh pangs, and set him swearing hard for a minute or more.
“How now! what, a murrain on you, puppy! Am I to be told my duty by a raw-boned, ill-conditioned Irish gallowglass that I have fed at my table and spent half my life in making a gentleman of? What do you think of that, Sir Captain? How would you like to be saddled with a young wolf-hound cub like that—Sorley Boy’s son he is, no other, on my life—that I was fool enough to take wardship of when he was a puling puppy and his father an honest man? What do you think of that? Curse the whole tribe of them, say I.”
“By your leave, Sir William,” said the captain in a smooth soft voice, that made every hair on my body bristle, “good deeds have always their reward; but as for the deer that was shot, your ward is generous enough to shield the real offender at his own cost. I should be sorry indeed had it been otherwise.”