“Listen, Jean,” said Christie; “we're gaun to get a boeny story. 'Five hundre' years ago,'” added she, with interest and awe.
“Was a great battle,” resumed the narrator, in cheerful tones, as one larking with history, “between a king of England and his rebels. He was in the thick of the fight—”
“That's the king, Jean, he was in the thick o't.”
“My ancestor killed a fellow who was sneaking behind him, but the next moment a man-at-arms prepared a thrust at his majesty, who had his hands full with three assailants.”
“Eh! that's no fair,” said Christie, “as sure as deeth.”
“My ancestor dashed forward, and, as the king's sword passed through one of them, he clove another to the waist with a blow.”
“Weel done! weel done!”
Lord Ipsden looked at the speaker, her eyes were glittering, and her cheek flushing.
“Good Heavens!” thought he; “she believes it!” So he began to take more pains with his legend.
“But for the spearsman,” continued he, “he had nothing but his body; he gave it, it was his duty, and received the death leveled at his sovereign.”