past, thou lookest like one that oweth the hangman his best suit.'

'I rust, my lord,' said Rowland, with a tragic air of discontent.

The notion had arisen in his foolish head that the way to soften the
heart of Dorothy would be to ride to the wars, and get himself
slain, or, rather severely but not mortally wounded. Then he would
be brought back to Raglan, and, thinking he was going to die,
Dorothy would nurse him, and then she would be sure to fall in love
with him. Yes--he would ride forth on the fellow Heywood's mare,
seek him in the field of battle, and slay him, but be himself thus
grievously wounded.

'I rust, my lord,' he said briefly.

'Ha! Thou wouldst to the wars! I like thee for that, boy. Truly the
king wanteth soldiers, and that more than ever. Thou art a good
cupbearer, but I will do my best to savour my claret without thee.
Thou shalt to the king, and what poor thing my word may do for thee
shall not be wanting.'

Scudamore had expected opposition, and was a little nonplussed. He
had judged himself essential to his master's comfort, and had even
hoped he might set Dorothy to use her influence towards reconciling
him to remain at home. But although self-indulgent and lazy,
Scudamore was constitutionally no coward, and had never had any
experience to give him pause: he did not know what an ugly thing a
battle is after it is over, and the mind has leisure to attend to
the smarting of the wounds.