“I hear you, sir,” says Mistress Alison, putting her face to the opening which we had contrived. “What is your wish?”
“Why, mistress,” says he, trying to catch a glimpse of her, “as for wishes they are casual things, and I have long eschewed them. I wish naught save to accomplish my duty——”
“I have no time to stand here chattering,” says Mistress Alison. “Come, your errand!”
“I come as a messenger of peace,” says the fellow. “Know, maiden, that my name it is Merciful Wiggleskirk, and that my nature is no less merciful than my name. I am a man of war, and yet my soul hankers exceedingly after peace——”
“Am I to stand listening to this babbler all day?” says my cousin to the rest of us. “Come, fellow!” she says sharply. “What is it that you want?”
“I desire your surrender, mistress,” says he. “There are some of us”—he cocked his eye in the direction of the stable—“that do carnally desire the sight and smell of blood, which are matters that I cannot abide. Therefore, I come, merciful as my name, to bid you yield yourselves in the interest of peace. Let there be peace between us, I pray you,” he says, rolling his eyes towards the window.
“Is that all you have to say, fellow?” asks my cousin.
“Verily, I have spoken, maiden,” says he.
“Then,” she says, “you can go back and say that there will be much blood—yea, enough to turn your squeamish stomach sick, Master Merciful Wiggleskirk, unless you and your fellow rascals depart on the instant. What! you come like thieves and robbers, and then insult us with your offers of mercy—oh!” she says, “get you within shelter, lest we fire upon you.”
“Peace, peace!” he says. “Peace, mistress. Woe in me that I should——”