“As for yonder varlet, called Cedric, he shall hang, to-morrow at dawn; and his body shall swing from Shrewsbury gate as an example to like evil-doers.”
Some of the clerks and constables strove to raise the shout—“Long live the King”; but all became utterly silent when my father sprang from his bench, and with a face of fury addressed his sovereign:
“Not so, my lord! Not so! By the Holy Sepulcher, it shall not be.”
The King sprang to his feet, and his right hand went to his sword hilt.
“Mountjoy,” he shouted, “thou forget’st thyself. Beware lest thou bring down on thy head a wrath more terrible than that of any Carleton.”
“By Heaven, my lord!” returned the Lord of Mountjoy in tones that matched the King’s, “that brave youth shall never hang for having done a deed that should bring him praise instead. I stand on my rights as a freeman of England, and demand the trial by battle. There lies my glove.”
Tearing from his hand his leathern gauntlet, he dashed it on the floor at the feet of the King.
All the assembled knights and soldiers drew a deep breath, as one man. There was a low murmur of applause, for the Mountjoys have many friends. The King’s hand left his sword, and his face relaxed.
“Thou hast the right, Mountjoy,” he said. Then, turning to the Carleton benches, went on: “Is there any among you who will take up this challenge?”
At this there started forth from a group of knights who had been standing a little behind the Lady of Carleton, a man of middle age, short of stature and of wide-mouthed, ill-favored face, but broad of shoulder and with arms so long that his hands reached nearly to his knees like those of a great ape I had seen in the train of the Cardinal.