"Ha, stout Will of Whitburn,
well met! What, from the north?"
The Earl stood talking with a tall brawny man, lean and strong, brown
and weather-beaten, in a frayed suit of buff leather stained to all
sorts of colours, in which rust predominated, and a face all brown
and red except for the grizzled eyebrows, hair, and stubbly beard.
She had not seen her father since she was five years old, and she
would not have known him.
"I am from the south now, my lord," she heard his gruff voice say.
"I have been taking my lad to be bred up in the Duke of York's house,
for better nurture than can be had in my sea-side tower."
"Quite right. Well done in you," responded Warwick. "The Duke of
York is the man to hold by. We have an exchange for you, a daughter
for a son," and he was leading the way towards Grisell, who had just
dismounted from her pony, and stood by it, trembling a little, and
bending for her father's blessing. It was not more than a crossing
of her, and he was talking all the time.
"Ha! how now! Methought my Lady of Salisbury had bestowed her in the
Abbey--how call you it?"
"Aye," returned Warwick; "but since we have not had King or
Parliament with spirit to stand up to the Pope, he thrusts his claw
in everywhere, puts a strange Abbess into Wilton, and what must she
do but send down her Proctor to treat the poor nunnery as it were a
sponge, and spite of all my Lady Mother's bounties to the place, what
lists he do but turn out the poor maid for lack of a dowry, not so
much as giving time for a notice to be sent.
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