“He gave the good father the rough side of his tongue,” quoth Randal, “for speaking first to me, and not to him. Happily we were over cunning to say aught of our gathering here. But when he had let his bile flow, he swore, and said that he could spare a hundred dyvour loons of his command, on the cast of the dice, and, now silence all! not a word or a cry,” here he held up his hand, “we are to take ‘fortune of war’!”
Every man grinned gladly on his neighbour, in dead stillness.
“Now,” said Randal, “slip out by threes and fours, quietly, and to quarters; but you, Norman, wait with me.”
CHAPTER XXII—HOW NORMAN LESLIE FARED IN PARIS TOWN
“Norman, my lad, all our fortunes are made,” said Randal to me when we were left alone. “There will be gilt spurs and gold for every one of us, and the pick of the plunder.”
“I like it not,” I answered; whereon he caught me rudely by both shoulders, looking close into my face, so that the fume of the wine he had been drinking reached my nostrils.
“Is a Leslie turning recreant?” he asked in a low voice. “A pretty tale to tell in the kingdom of Fife!”
I stood still, my heart very hot with anger, and said no word, while his grip closed on me.
“Leave hold,” I cried at last, and I swore an oath, may the Saints forgive me,—“I will not go!”
He loosed his grasp on me, and struck one hand hard into the other.