XXI.
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he captain mused a little space,And passed his hand across his face.“Fain would I find the guide you want,But ill may pursuivant,The only men that safe can rideMine errands on the Scottish side:And though a bishop built this fort,Few holy brethren here resort;Even our good chaplain, as I ween,Since our last siege we have not seen:The mass he might not sing or say,Upon one stinted meal a day;So safe he sat in Durham aisle,And prayed for our success the while.Our Norham vicar, woe betide,Is all too well in case to ride;The priest of Shoreswood—he could reinThe wildest war-horse in your train;But then, no spearman in the hallWill sooner swear, or stab, or brawl.Friar John of Tillmouth were the man:A blithesome brother at the can,A welcome guest in hall and bower,He knows each castle, town, and tower,In which the wine and ale is good,’Twixt Newcastle and Holyrood.But that good man, as ill befalls,Hath seldom left our castle walls,Since, on the vigil of Saint Bede,In evil hour, he crossed the Tweed,To teach Dame Alison her creed.Old Bughtrig found him with his wife;And John, an enemy to strife,Sans frock and hood, fled for his life.The jealous churl hath deeply sworeThat if again he venture o’er,He shall shrive penitent no more.Little he loves such risks, I know;Yet in your guard, perchance, will go.”
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