In pottingry he wrocht great pyne;
He murdreit mony in medecyne.
DUNBAR.
When, after an entertainment the prolonging of which was like torture to the wounded knight, the Earl of Crawford at length took horse, to go to his distant quarters in the Castle of Dupplin, where he resided as a guest, the Knight of Ramorny retired into his sleeping apartment, agonized by pains of body and anxiety of mind. Here he found Henbane Dwining, on whom it was his hard fate to depend for consolation in both respects. The physician, with his affectation of extreme humility, hoped he saw his exalted patient merry and happy.
“Merry as a mad dog,” said Ramorny, “and happy as the wretch whom the cur hath bitten, and who begins to feel the approach of the ravening madness! That ruthless boy, Crawford, saw my agony, and spared not a single carouse. I must do him justice, forsooth! If I had done justice to him and to the world, I had thrown him out of window and cut short a career which, if he grew up as he has begun, will prove a source of misery to all Scotland, but especially to Tayside. Take heed as thou undoest the ligatures, chirurgeon, the touch of a fly’s wing on that raw glowing stump were like a dagger to me.”
“Fear not, my noble patron,” said the leech, with a chuckling laugh of enjoyment, which he vainly endeavoured to disguise under a tone of affected sensibility. “We will apply some fresh balsam, and—he, he, he!—relieve your knightly honour of the irritation which you sustain so firmly.”
“Firmly, man!” said Ramorny, grinning with pain; “I sustain it as I would the scorching flames of purgatory. The bone seems made of red hot iron; thy greasy ointment will hiss as it drops upon the wound. And yet it is December’s ice, compared to the fever fit of my mind!”
“We will first use our emollients upon the body, my noble patron,” said Dwining; “and then, with your knighthood’s permission; your servant will try his art on the troubled mind; though I fain hope even the mental pain also may in some degree depend on the irritation of the wound, and that, abated as I trust the corporeal pangs will soon be, perhaps the stormy feelings of the mind may subside of themselves.”
“Henbane Dwining,” said the patient, as he felt the pain of his wound assuaged, “thou art a precious and invaluable leech, but some things are beyond thy power. Thou canst stupify my bodily cause of this raging agony, but thou canst not teach me to bear the score of the boy whom I have brought up—whom I loved, Dwining—for I did love him—dearly love him! The worst of my ill deeds have been to flatter his vices; and he grudged me a word of his mouth, when a word would have allayed this cumber! He smiled, too—I saw him smile—when yon paltry provost, the companion and patron of wretched burghers, defied me, whom this heartless prince knew to be unable to bear arms. Ere I forget or forgive it, thou thyself shalt preach up the pardoning of injuries! And then the care for tomorrow! Think’st thou, Henbane Dwining, that, in very reality, the Wounds of the slaughtered corpse will gape and shed tears of fresh blood at the murderer’s approach?”
“I cannot tell, my lord, save by report,” said Dwining, “which avouches the fact.”
“The brute Bonthron,” said Ramorny, “is startled at the apprehension of such a thing, and speaking of being rather willing to stand the combat. What think’st thou? He is a fellow of steel.”
“It is the armourer’s trade to deal with steel,” replied Dwining.