"Thou go whistle for a fair wind! Here goes!" And little Roger, gathering all his forces, gave a wild upward leap from the settle, intent on catching the brass rod which was part of the ornamentation of the press, and was not very firmly fixed. To Lawrence’s surprise, he caught it; but the next moment the end of the rod came out in his hand, and the natural result followed. Down came the rod, and down came Roger, overturning the settle, and bringing his head into violent contact with the floor. There he lay stunned, with Lawrence looking at him in a terrible fright. "Gramercy, what a to-do is here!" said the voice of Master Salveyn at the door. "Were ye not bidden be good lads til!—— Mercy, Saint Mary! my Lord bleeds! How happened this?" Lawrence tremblingly replied that he had been climbing, and had fallen. His own nerves had received a much worse shock than those of Salveyn. "Good lack, will lads ever be out of mischief?" demanded that gentleman. "Shut them up in a chamber where you should think none ill could hap them short of earth-moving,[#] and ere you shall well have turned your back, they shall be killing either themselves or one another! Run thou to call Mistress Grenestede, while I bear my young Lord to his chamber." [#] Earthquake. Lawrence rushed off for the middle-aged and useful person in question, the children’s nurse, governess, prescriber, chemist, confectioner, and general factotum: and in a few minutes Roger was laid in bed, and Mistress Grenestede was bathing his injured head with warm water. She improved the occasion by giving a lecture to Lawrence—who did not need it—on imprudence and rashness. But when time went on, and her little patient did not return to consciousness, Mistress Grenestede began to look uneasy. A whispered consultation with Salveyn resulted in the sending of a varlet on some errand. Another half-hour elapsed without change, and then Lawrence, standing beside his master’s bed, half hidden by the curtain, heard somebody say, "He is come." A step forward to enable him to see who it was, and a smothered exclamation of pleasure broke from him. Master Salveyn was ushering in a priest in long black robe—all physicians were priests at that date—and though the new-comer failed to recognise Lawrence, the boy knew him. "Father Robesart! God be thanked!" The priest heard him, and turned towards him. "Who art thou, my son?" Lawrence’s delight overcame his shyness. "Father Robesart, wit you not me? I am Lawrence, son of Nicholas, tanner, in the huts at Usk, that went away these two years gone. I bade you farewell in the church aisle, and you blessed me, and told me I should pass word to you never to go any whither that I had not first asked our Lord to be with me." "Good, my son. I remember thee now, and will have more talk with thee anon. Now let me look on the sick child. Is it my little Lord of March?" "That is he, good Father." "How gat he this hurt?"