"O my dear, good Friar
John, methinks the kind Saints have brought thee to my need."
"Saints, quotha!" exclaimed the Friar, rolling merry eye towards his
several captors. "Call ye these--Saints? Long have I sought thee, thou
naughty maid, and to-day in my quest these brawny 'saints' beset me with
bow and quarterstaff and me constrained hither--but my blessing on them
since they have brought me to thee. And now, sweet child and daughter,
whiles the news yet runneth hot-foot or, like bird unseen, wingeth from lip
to lip, I thy ghostly father have rare good news for thee--"
"Nay, Friar John, I will guess thy tidings: Sir Agramore of Biename lieth
sorry and sore of a cudgelling."
"How!" cried the Friar. "Thou dost know--so soon?"
"Verily, Reverend Father, nor have I or my worthy guardians aught to fear
of him hereafter. And now have I right wondrous news for thee, news that
none may guess. List, dear Friar John, thou the wisest and best loved of
all my guardians ten; to-day ye are absolved henceforth all care of your
wilful ward since to-day she passeth from the guardianship of ye ten to the
keeping of one.
Pages:
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247