"I tell you I thought
you a different sort of person. Did you ever read Froissart?"
"No," was Morton's answer.
"I have half a mind," said Claverhouse, "to contrive you should have six
months' imprisonment in order to procure you that pleasure. His chapters
inspire me with more enthusiasm than even poetry itself. And the noble
canon, with what true chivalrous feeling he confines his beautiful
expressions of sorrow to the death of the gallant and high-bred knight,
of whom it was a pity to see the fall, such was his loyalty to his king,
pure faith to his religion, hardihood towards his enemy, and fidelity to
his lady-love!--Ah, benedicite! how he will mourn over the fall of such a
pearl of knighthood, be it on the side he happens to favour, or on the
other. But, truly, for sweeping from the face of the earth some few
hundreds of villain churls, who are born but to plough it, the high-born
and inquisitive historian has marvellous little sympathy,--as little, or
less, perhaps, than John Grahame of Claverhouse."
"There is one ploughman in your possession, General, for whom," said
Morton, "in despite of the contempt in which you hold a profession which
some philosophers have considered as useful as that of a soldier, I would
humbly request your favour.
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