“Yea,” says he, rubbing away at my foot, “your ancient house, Master Coope, is certainly not of such fair proportions as it was. Stott fired two discharges into it, and you will have some repairs to see to if you intend—but I forgot,” he says, looking at me with a curious smile, “that you will not need earthly residence much longer.”
“So the old house is dismantled?” says I.
“Why, say somewhat disarranged,” says he.
“May the Lord reward whoever did it!” says I, and fell a prey to bitter thoughts. I had loved that old house, and it gave me sore pain to think of it, a heap of ruins over my uncle’s grave. “Alack!” thinks I, sadly. “What evil days have we fallen upon. My uncle lies dead and buried under his own floor, Alison is in the hands of Anthony Dacre, and here sit I, waiting to be shot. Was ever sadder fortune?”
But there Merciful Wiggleskirk gave up his ministrations, and looked up at me from where he knelt on the floor.
“Now, master,” says he, “how does your hurt feel by this time?”
“Why,” says I, working my ankle about, “I believe it is a deal easier. That ointment o’ thine must be rare stuff—it has certainly given me relief.”
“I could have you fit to stand upright without pain by to-morrow,” says he, proudly. “Ah! this is, as I said, the very balm of Gilead. I concocted the notion on’t myself, and would not sell it for a deal o’ money. When I grow weary of this fighting trade, master, I shall set up as an empiric——”
“It would reward you better,” says I. “And were a fitter employment for a man of your powers. I’m obliged to you,” I says. “The smart hath abated marvellously.”
“I will minister to you again ere long,” says he. “You shall walk out of this cottage straight enough in the morning. But here’s your pens and paper,” he says, seeing the other trooper returning. “So now you can fall to your writing, master.”