Failing this, the boy had been shown to a
travelling friar, who had promised cure through the relics he carried
about; but Bernard had only screamed at him, and had been none the
better.
And now the little fellow had got over the first shock, he found that
"Grisly," as he still called her, but only as an affectionate
abbreviation, was the only person who could relieve his pain, or
amuse him, in the whole castle; and he was incessantly hanging on
her. She must put him to bed and sing lullabies to him, she must rub
his limbs when they ached with rheumatic pains; hers was the only
hand which might touch the sores that continually broke out, and he
would sit for long spaces on her lap, sometimes stroking down the
scar and pitying it with "Poor Grisly; when I am a man, I will throw
down my glove, and fight with that lad, and kill him."
"O nay, nay, Bernard; he never meant to do me evil. He is a fair,
brave, good boy."
"He scorned and ran away from you. He is mansworn and recreant,"
persisted Bernard. "Rob and I will make him say that you are the
fairest of ladies."
"O nay, nay. That he could not."
"But you are, you are--on this side--mine own Grisly," cried Bernard,
whose experiences of fair ladies had not been extensive, and who
curled himself on her lap, giving unspeakable rest and joy to her
weary, yearning spirit, as she pressed him to her breast. "Now, a
story, a story," he entreated, and she was rich in tales from
Scripture history and legends of the Saints, or she would sing her
sweet monastic hymns and chants, as he nestled in her lap.
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