"What news from the mill, my stout warrior of the north?" said Lord
William.
"I think I payed one on 'em, your worship," said Robin, taking the
bundle in his hand. "Not a cat said mew when they felt my whittle.
Marry, I spoilt their catterwauling: I've cut a rare shive!"
"How didst fare last night with thy wenches?" inquired the other.
"I've mended their manners for a while, I guess. As I peeped about
betimes this morning, I found--a paw! If cats are bred with hands and
gowden rings on their fingers, they shall e'en ha' sporting-room i' the
mill! No bad luck, methinks."
Robin uncovered the prize, and drew out a bleeding hand, mangled at the
wrist, and blackened as if by fire; one finger decorated with a ring,
which Lord William too plainly recognised. He seized the terrific
pledge, and, with a look betokening some deadly purpose, hastened to his
wife's chamber. He demanded admittance in too peremptory a tone for
denial. His features were still, not a ripple marked the disturbance
beneath. He stood with a calm and tranquil brow by her bed-side; but she
read a fearful message in his eye.
"Fair lady, how farest thou?--I do fear me thou art ill!"
"She's sick, and in great danger.
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