Half-Hours with Great Story-Tellers | Page 8

killing of a frowsy friar would be much resented, even had he not taken
so bold a measure to obtain his pardon. His petition was granted, of
course, as soon as asked; and so it would have been had the indictment
drawn up by the Canterbury town-clerk, viz., "That he, the said Robert
de Shurland, &c., had then and there, with several, to wit, one thousand
pairs of boots, given sundry, to wit, two thousand kicks, and therewith

and thereby killed divers, to wit, ten thousand, Austin friars," been true
to the letter.
Thrice did the gallant grey circumnavigate the barge, while Robert de
Winchelsey, the chancellor and archbishop to boot, was making out,
albeit with great reluctance, the royal pardon. The interval was
sufficiently long to enable his Majesty, who, gracious as he was, had
always an eye to business, just to hint that the gratitude he felt towards
the Baron was not unmixed with a lively sense of services to come; and
that, if life were now spared him, common decency must oblige him to
make himself useful. Before the archbishop, who had scalded his
fingers with the wax in affixing the great seal, had time to take them
out of his mouth, all was settled, and the Baron de Shurland had
pledged himself to be forthwith in readiness, cum suis, to accompany
his liege lord to Guienne.
With the royal pardon secured in his vest, boldly did his lordship turn
again to the shore; and as boldly did his courser oppose his breadth of
chest to the stream. It was a work of no common difficulty or danger; a
steed of less "mettle and bone" had long since sunk in the effort; as it
was, the Baron's boots were full of water, and Grey Dolphin's
chamfrain more than once dipped beneath the wave. The convulsive
snorts of the noble animal showed his distress; each instant they
became more loud and frequent; when his hoof touched the strand, "the
horse and his rider" stood once again in safety on the shore.
Rapidly dismounting the Baron was loosening the girths of his demi-
pique, to give the panting animal breath, when he was aware of as ugly
an old woman as he ever clapped eyes upon, peeping at him under the
horse's belly.
"Make much of your steed, Robert Shurland! Make much of your
steed!" cried the hag, shaking at him her long and bony finger." Groom
to the hide, and corn to the manger! He has saved your life, Robert
Shurland, for the nonce? but he shall yet be the means of your losing it
for all that!"
The Baron started: "What's that you say, you old faggot!" He ran round
by his horse's tail; the woman was gone!
The Baron paused: his great soul was not to be shaken by trifles! he
looked around him, and solemnly ejaculated the word "Humbug!" then
slinging the bridle across his arm, walked slowly on in the direction of

the castle.
The appearance, and still more, the disappearance of the crone, had,
however, made an impression; "'Twould be deuced provoking, though,
if he should break my neck after all." He turned and gazed at Dolphin
with the eye of a veterinary surgeon. "I'll be shot if he is not groggy!"
said the Baron.
With his lordship, like another great commander, "Once to be in doubt,
was once to be resolved:" it would never do to go to the wars on a
ricketty prad. He dropped the rein, drew forth Tickletoby, and, as the
enfranchised Dolphin, good easy horse, stretched out his ewe-neck to
the herbage, struck off his head at a single blow. "There, you lying old
beldame!" said the Baron; "now take him away to the knacker's."
Three years were come and gone. King Edward's French wars were
over; both parties having fought till they came to a standstill, shook
hands, and the quarrel, as usual, was patched up by a royal marriage.
This happy event gave his majesty leisure to turn his attention to
Scotland, where things, through the intervention of William Wallace,
were looking rather queerish. As his reconciliation with Philip now
allowed of his fighting the Scotch in peace and quietness, the monarch
lost no time in marching his long legs across the border, and the short
ones of the Baron followed him of course. At Falkirk, Tickletoby was
in great request; and in the year following, we find a contemporary poet
hinting at his master's prowess under the walls of Caerlaverock--
A quatrain which Mr. Simpkinson translates,
Ovec ens fu achiminez Li beau Robert de Shurland Ri kant seoit sur le
cheval Ne sembloit home ke someille.
With them was marching The good Robert de Shurland, Who, when
seated on horseback, Does not resemble a man asleep!
So