“Hem! I see the matter very clearly,” said Dwining. “Heaven smiles on some untoward consequences—he! he! he!”
“No matter, the trap is ready; and it is baited, too, my friend, with what would lure the boy from a sanctuary, though a troop with drawn weapons waited him in the churchyard. Yet is it scarce necessary. His own weariness of himself would have done the job. Get thy matters ready—thou goest with us. Write to him, as I cannot, that we come instantly to attend his commands, and do it clerkly. He reads well, and that he owes to me.”
“He will be your valiancie’s debtor for more knowledge before he dies—he! he! he! But is your bargain sure with the Duke of Albany?”
“Enough to gratify my ambition, thy avarice, and the revenge of both. Aboard—aboard, and speedily; let Eviot throw in a few flasks of the choicest wine, and some cold baked meats.”
“But your arm, my lord, Sir John? Does it not pain you?”
“The throbbing of my heart silences the pain of my wound. It beats as it would burst my bosom.”
“Heaven forbid!” said Dwining; adding, in a low voice—“It would be a strange sight if it should. I should like to dissect it, save that its stony case would spoil my best instruments.”
In a few minutes they were in the boat, while a speedy messenger carried the note to the Prince.
Rothsay was seated with the Constable, after their noontide repast. He was sullen and silent; and the earl had just asked whether it was his pleasure that the table should be cleared, when a note, delivered to the Prince, changed at once his aspect.
“As you will,” he said. “I go to the pavilion in the garden—always with permission of my Lord Constable—to receive my late master of the horse.”