His words and tone softened Gascoyne a little. "Ne'er mind," said the
squire; "it was not thy fault, and is past mending now. So come and fill
thy stomach, in Heaven's name."

Perhaps not the least hard part of the whole trying day for Myles
was his parting with Diccon. Gascoyne and he had accompanied the old
retainer to the outer gate, in the archway of which they now stood; for
without a permit they could go no farther. The old bowman led by the
bridle-rein the horse upon which Myles had ridden that morning. His own
nag, a vicious brute, was restive to be gone, but Diccon held him in
with tight rein. He reached down, and took Myles's sturdy brown hand in
his crooked, knotted grasp.

"Farewell, young master," he croaked, tremulously, with a watery glimmer
in his pale eyes. "Thou wilt not forget me when I am gone?"

"Nay," said Myles; "I will not forget thee."

"Aye, aye," said the old man, looking down at him, and shaking his head
slowly from side to side; "thou art a great tall sturdy fellow now, yet
have I held thee on my knee many and many's the time, and dandled thee
when thou wert only a little weeny babe. Be still, thou devil's limb!"
he suddenly broke off, reining back his restive raw-boned steed,
which began again to caper and prance. Myles was not sorry for the
interruption; he felt awkward and abashed at the parting, and at the old
man's reminiscences, knowing that Gascoyne's eyes were resting amusedly
upon the scene, and that the men-at-arms were looking on. Certainly
old Diccon did look droll as he struggled vainly with his vicious
high-necked nag. "Nay, a murrain on thee! an' thou wilt go, go!" cried