Wal. Tell them I'm busy.
Knight. Busy? St. Martin! Knitting stockings, eh?
To clothe the poor withal? Is that your business?
I passed that canting baby on the stairs;
Would heaven that she had tripped, and broke her goose-neck,
And left us heirs de facto. So, farewell. [Exit.]
Wal. A very pretty quarrel! matter enough
To spoil a waggon-load of ash-staves on,
And break a dozen fools' backs across their cantlets.
What's Lewis doing?
Isen. Oh--befooled,--
Bewitched with dogs and horses, like an idiot
Clutching his bauble, while a priceless jewel
Sticks at his miry heels.
Wal. The boy's no fool,--
As good a heart as hers, but somewhat given
To hunt the nearest butterfly, and light
The fire of fancy without hanging o'er it
The porridge-pot of practice. He shall hear or--
Isen. And quickly, for there's treason in the wind.
They'll keep her dower, and send her home with shame
Before the year's out.
Wal. Humph! Some are rogues enough for't.
As it falls out, I ride with him to-day.
Isen. Upon what business?
Wal. Some shaveling has been telling him that there are heretics on
his land: Stadings, worshippers of black cats, baby-eaters, and
such like.
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