All
the childish vanity of the savage boiled over. He strutted, he shouted, he
tossed about his huge limbs, he called for a harper, and challenged all
around to dance, sing, leap, fight, do anything against him: meeting with
nothing but admiring silence, he danced himself out of breath, and then
began boasting once more of his fights, his cruelties, his butcheries, his
impossible escapes and victories; till at last, as luck would have it, he
espied Hereward, and poured out a stream of abuse against Englishmen and
English courage.
"Englishmen," he said, "were naught. Had he not slain three of them
himself with one blow?"
"Of your mouth, I suppose," quoth Hereward, who saw that the quarrel must
come, and was glad to have it done and over.
"Of my mouth?" roared Ironhook; "of my sword, man!"
"Of your mouth," said Hereward. "Of your brain were they begotten, of the
breath of your mouth they were born, and by the breath of your mouth you
can slay them again as often as you choose."
The joke, as it has been handed down to us by the old chroniclers, seems
clumsy enough; but it sent the princess, say they, into shrieks of
laughter.
"Were it not that my Lord Alef was here," shouted Ironhook, "I would kill
you out of hand."
"Promise to fight fair, and do your worst.
Pages:
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102