"Is there any hope, father?"
"I know not," the priest replied, shaking his head sorrowfully. "We
have stanched the wounds, but his head is well nigh cleft open. I have
some skill in wounds, for they are common enough in this unfortunate
country, and I should say that there was no hope; but Meg here, who is
noted through the country round for her knowledge in these matters,
thinks that it is possible he may yet recover. She is now making a
poultice of herbs that she will lay on the wound; or rather on the
wounds, for he has no less than four."
"I think that he will live, young master," the old woman said in a
quavering, high-pitched voice. "'Tis hard to kill an Armstrong. They
have ever been a hardy race and, save the lad's father, have ever been
prone to the giving and taking of blows. I watched by his grandfather's
bed, when he was in as sore a strait as this; but he came round, and
was none the worse for it, though the blow would have killed any man
with a softer skull.
"A curse upon the Bairds, I say. They have ever been a race of thieves
and raiders, and it is their doings that have brought trouble on the
border, as long as I can remember."
"Has any gone to bear the news to Adam Armstrong, father?"
"Yes.
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