“Thou liest in thy throat,” Sir Jaufry said; “never couldst thou be prized a proper knight, but rather, I believe, an arrant knave. Who doth a villain's act doth forfeit rank and chivalry alike. In vain thy suit; no pardon shalt thou find.”
Undoing his steel helmet as he spoke, he seized a rope and placed it round his neck; then, dragging him beneath the dismal tree, he well and fairly hung him up thereto.
“Good friend,” he then apostrophised the knight, “the passage now may be considered safe, and travellers need fear little more from thee.”
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Leaving him hanging upon such adieu, he rode towards the dwarf, as with intent to kill. But when the latter saw him thus return, crossing his arms full quickly on his breast,—
“Fair sir,” he cried, “I yield to you and Heaven; but grant me, pray, your pity. Of myself no evil have I done; since, had I disobeyed the knight, I should have lost my life. Maugre myself, for fourteen years I've watched this lance, which twice a-day I burnished. Woe had betided me if I had bilked such task, or failed by signal to advise my lord when it was touched by knight. This, fair my lord, hath been my only crime.”
“Thou mayst have mercy,” Jaufry said, “an thou dost that which I shall now command.”