zimply rejoin tha Cavalier cavalary, what’ll we find? All tha news can’t lie, ’bout how Cromwell an’ tha rest be smashin’ our zide like with sledgehammers. You’d rally ’em zome, no doubt, my loard; but I fear ’tis too late to do moare than stave off tha endin’ awhile.”
Rupert scowled. “What else does honor allow, save a return to serve the King?”
“There be ways an’ ways o’zarvin’ him, loard.” Will plucked Rupert’s sleeve. “Come, let’s rest our feet by Mis’ess Jennifer. She needs to hear this too, I be toald.”
“Told?” Rupert asked sharply. “By who?”
“Thic’s what I aim to tell you, my loard an’ lady, if you’ll listen.”
Rupert peered about before he shrugged and followed. When he settled into the grass next the girl, she took his arm. He kept stiffly motionless. Will Fairweather buckled at waist and joints, like a folding rack, as he joined them.
The moonlight streamed, the horses cropped, a sighing went through unseen leaves.
Leaning forward, his big hands flung now right, now left in awkward gestures, Will said, unwontedly earnest: “My loard an’ lady, I be a Christian man. You must believe ’tis zo; else we be done. Oh, aye, I’ve zinned tha zeven zins, an’ moare; ha’ broaken Zabbath, stoalen, poached, caroused, an’ zee scant hoape I’ll ever mend my ways—yet still tha Faith’s in this ramshackle zoul, an’ I repent me that I can’t repent a longer time than from tha mornin’s headache to tha first bowl o’ yale what drives it out. I do believe Christ Jesus is our Zaviour, whose blood got shed for even zuch as me.”
He filled his narrow chest before going on: “But shouldn’t than God’s oaverflowin’ grace wash oaver everythingwhat ’A has maede? If human flesh be grass, tha grass itzelf should liakewise be an object o’ His love, tha fish, tha fowl, tha beasts—all what ’A maede. I wonder if maybe tha fiends in hell be just too proud to take tha love ’A offers.” (Rupert stirred and frowned.) “Aye, aye, my loard, thic’s heresy, I know. It ben’t for me talk o’ zuch-like things. Zave this one pw’int”—he lifted a finger—“that there be alzo creatures what reason, talk, yet be not whoally men. I speak not o’ tha angels, understand, but bein’s in an’ of our common yearth, though ageless an’ with powers we doan’t have. Well, we got powers tha’ doan’t, an’ zome zay we got immortal zouls an’ tha’ do not. A simpleton liake me knows naught o’ thic. I only know that many, if not all, mean well, however flighty oftentimes. They be unchristened; zo be animals; an’ neither kind war ever in revolt against tha will o’ heaven, war it, now? If ’tis no zin to care for hoa’se or hound, why should it be a zin to have for friends tha oalden elven spirits o’ tha land?”
Jennifer shrank from him, closer against Rupert. The prince had gone impassive. “That’s heathendom!” she said, aghast. “They’d lure thy soul to hell.”
“Zome would, no doubt; but than, zome humans would. What harm can be in common usages what maybe zailed with Noah in tha Ark, when men an’ beasts an’ weather war as one? If ’tis allowed to zet a bowl o’ milk for your graymalkin sine ’a catches mice, what’s wrong with showin’ kindness to a harmless hobgoblin what will work or ward a bit? As for those ones what dwell apart from men—”
Rupert stirred. “Thou’st met them thine own self?”
“Well, zeldom, loard. But zome few times I have, beneath tha stars, when I war … questin’; for my family has ever shown their kind its due respect. We never cut a tree nor kill a beast without first barin’ head an’ drawin’ cross—”
Jennifer was doubly shocked. Will gave her an apologetic smile. “—thic zort o’ thing, to them what share tha land,” he finished. To Rupert: “I’d maybe chat awhile, or swap a cup—their wild an’ spicy mead for plain brown yale—or watch ’em dancin’
Rupert scowled. “What else does honor allow, save a return to serve the King?”
“There be ways an’ ways o’zarvin’ him, loard.” Will plucked Rupert’s sleeve. “Come, let’s rest our feet by Mis’ess Jennifer. She needs to hear this too, I be toald.”
“Told?” Rupert asked sharply. “By who?”
“Thic’s what I aim to tell you, my loard an’ lady, if you’ll listen.”
Rupert peered about before he shrugged and followed. When he settled into the grass next the girl, she took his arm. He kept stiffly motionless. Will Fairweather buckled at waist and joints, like a folding rack, as he joined them.
The moonlight streamed, the horses cropped, a sighing went through unseen leaves.
Leaning forward, his big hands flung now right, now left in awkward gestures, Will said, unwontedly earnest: “My loard an’ lady, I be a Christian man. You must believe ’tis zo; else we be done. Oh, aye, I’ve zinned tha zeven zins, an’ moare; ha’ broaken Zabbath, stoalen, poached, caroused, an’ zee scant hoape I’ll ever mend my ways—yet still tha Faith’s in this ramshackle zoul, an’ I repent me that I can’t repent a longer time than from tha mornin’s headache to tha first bowl o’ yale what drives it out. I do believe Christ Jesus is our Zaviour, whose blood got shed for even zuch as me.”
He filled his narrow chest before going on: “But shouldn’t than God’s oaverflowin’ grace wash oaver everythingwhat ’A has maede? If human flesh be grass, tha grass itzelf should liakewise be an object o’ His love, tha fish, tha fowl, tha beasts—all what ’A maede. I wonder if maybe tha fiends in hell be just too proud to take tha love ’A offers.” (Rupert stirred and frowned.) “Aye, aye, my loard, thic’s heresy, I know. It ben’t for me talk o’ zuch-like things. Zave this one pw’int”—he lifted a finger—“that there be alzo creatures what reason, talk, yet be not whoally men. I speak not o’ tha angels, understand, but bein’s in an’ of our common yearth, though ageless an’ with powers we doan’t have. Well, we got powers tha’ doan’t, an’ zome zay we got immortal zouls an’ tha’ do not. A simpleton liake me knows naught o’ thic. I only know that many, if not all, mean well, however flighty oftentimes. They be unchristened; zo be animals; an’ neither kind war ever in revolt against tha will o’ heaven, war it, now? If ’tis no zin to care for hoa’se or hound, why should it be a zin to have for friends tha oalden elven spirits o’ tha land?”
Jennifer shrank from him, closer against Rupert. The prince had gone impassive. “That’s heathendom!” she said, aghast. “They’d lure thy soul to hell.”
“Zome would, no doubt; but than, zome humans would. What harm can be in common usages what maybe zailed with Noah in tha Ark, when men an’ beasts an’ weather war as one? If ’tis allowed to zet a bowl o’ milk for your graymalkin sine ’a catches mice, what’s wrong with showin’ kindness to a harmless hobgoblin what will work or ward a bit? As for those ones what dwell apart from men—”
Rupert stirred. “Thou’st met them thine own self?”
“Well, zeldom, loard. But zome few times I have, beneath tha stars, when I war … questin’; for my family has ever shown their kind its due respect. We never cut a tree nor kill a beast without first barin’ head an’ drawin’ cross—”
Jennifer was doubly shocked. Will gave her an apologetic smile. “—thic zort o’ thing, to them what share tha land,” he finished. To Rupert: “I’d maybe chat awhile, or swap a cup—their wild an’ spicy mead for plain brown yale—or watch ’em dancin’
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