“I’m ready—here!” cried Ned Warbeck, approaching, and laughing good humouredly, and his hands were thrust up at the instant.
“No, Ned Warbeck,” cried the smith, “not you—you must stay and manage here. Your head’s the coolest; and though I’d sooner have your arm alongside of me in the rough time than any other two that I know of, ’twont do to take you from the rest on this risk. Who else is ready? Let him come to the scratch, and no longer talk about it. What do you say, Master Tim? That’s chance enough for you, if you really want to die for your country.”
And as he spoke, he thrust his head forward, while his eyes peered into the very bosom of the little groom, and his axe descended on a door post, near which he stood, with a thundering emphasis that rung through the street.
“I can’t use the axe,” cried Tim, hurriedly; “it’s not my instrument. Sword or pistol for me, my friends. In their exercise I give way to no man, and in their use I ask for no leader; but I am neither wood-chopper nor blacksmith.”
“And this is your way of dying for the good of the people!” said the smith, contemptuously.
“I am willing, even now; I say it again, as I have before said, and as now I solemnly repeat it,” said Tim, pompously; “but I must die for them after my own fashion, and under proper circumstances.
“With sword in hand, crossing the perilous breach, with weapon befitting the use of a noble gentleman, I am ready.
“But I know not any rule that would require of me to perish for my country with the broad axe of a wood-chopper, the cleaver of a butcher, or the sledge of a blacksmith, in my hand,” said Master Tim, in mock dignity.
“Well, I’m no soldier,” retorted the smith; “but I think a man, to be really ready to die for his country, shouldn’t be too nice as to which way he does it.
“Now, the sword and the pistol are of monstrous little use here.