Should he choose for me a place and use his influence to secure
it, perchance the next week the noble lord might be fleeing, and all in
his service, under the hatred of the king. And there might be those who
would say, 'Here is Hugo Aungerville, the page to my lord, and the
nephew of the prior of St. Wilfrid.' And then might the king pull down
the priory about my uncle's ears,--that is, I mean he would set my
uncle packing. For the priory is fat, and with the prior gone--why, the
king is so much the richer. Thou knowest the king."
"Too well," rejoined Lady De Aldithely, with a sigh. "The Archbishop of
York is 'gone packing,' as thou sayest, and the king is all the richer
therefor. And this is thy dog that hath the arrow wound," she
continued, as she advanced a few steps and laid her hand on the hound's
head. "I have here a medicament of wonderful power." She turned to a
little casket on a table and unlocked it. Then taking out a small
flask, she opened it and, stooping over the dog, poured a few drops on
the bandage of his wound. "He is now as good as well," she said
smilingly. "That is, with our good leech's care, which he shall have.
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