"
"If we had such a rogue in the North Country we should know how to
serve him," observed Sir William, and Warwick laughed as befitted a
Westmoreland Nevil, albeit he was used to more civilised ways.
"Scurvy usage," he said, "but the Prioress had no choice save to put
her in such keeping as she could, and send her away to my Lady
Mother, or failing her to her home."
"Soh! She must e'en jog off with me, though how it is to be with her
my lady may tell, not I, since every groat those villain yeomen and
fisher folk would raise, went to fit out young Rob, and there has not
been so much as a Border raid these four years and more. There are
the nuns at Gateshead, as hard as nails, will not hear of a maid
without a dower, and yonder mansworn fellow Copeland casts her off
like an old glove! Let us look at you, wench! Ha! Face is
unsightly enough, but thou wilt not be a badly-made woman. Take
heart, what's thy name--Grisell? May be there's luck for thee still,
though it be hard of coming to Whitburn," he added, turning to
Warwick. "There's this wench scorched to a cinder, enough to fright
one, and my other lad racked from head to foot with pain and sores,
so as it is a misery to hear the poor child cry out, and even if he
be reared, he will be good for nought save a convent."
Grisell would fain have heard more about this poor little brother,
but the ladies were entering the castle, and she had to follow them.
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