“Not much the worse, Grimshaw, for your son’s stick.”
Isaac rubbed his palms together and beamed.
“I have come to ask your honor’s pardon, sir.”
The patriarch sniffed pathetically, and fidgeted as he stood with limp humbleness beside the bed. How could Jeffray appear angry with such an old fellow whose soul was overwhelmed in contrition for his son’s misdeeds.
“Do not vex yourself, Grimshaw, on my account,” said the master of Rodenham, frankly, “your son’s blood was up, and I drew my sword on him. He is a dangerous fellow, Grimshaw, and beyond your handling, I imagine.”
Isaac bowed his head into his hands.
“The Lord help me, sir,” he said, sobbing, “he’s a wild lad, your honor, but not bad at heart.”
“This may be a lesson to him, Grimshaw.”
“Please God, sir, it will. Bess, sir, Bess is a good wench, but she has a tongue that would drive a young man crazy.”
“I don’t blame her, Grimshaw, so far as your son is concerned.”