“Welcome, Herr Ritter,” he said; “I am sorry we have been unable to give you a fitter reception.”
“No host could be more fully excused than you,” said the stranger, and Ebbo started at his voice. “I fear you have suffered much, and still have much to suffer.”
“My sword wound is healing fast,” said Ebbo; “it is the shot in my broken thigh that is so tedious and painful.”
“And I dare be sworn the leeches made it worse. I have hated all leeches ever since they kept me three days a prisoner in a ’pothecary’s shop stinking with drugs. Why, I have cured myself with one pitcher of water of a raging fever, in their very despite! How did they serve thee, my poor boy?”
“They poured hot oil into the wound to remove the venom of the lead,” said Ebbo.
“Had it been my case the lead should have been in their own brains first, though that were scarce needed, the heavy-witted Hans Sausages. Why should there be more poison in lead than in steel? I have asked all my surgeons that question, nor ever had a reasonable answer. Greater havoc of warriors do they make than ever with the arquebus—ay, even when every lanzknecht bears one.”
“Alack!” Ebbo could not help exclaiming, “where will be room for chivalry?”
“Talk not old world nonsense,” said Theurdank; “chivalry is in the heart, not in the weapon. A youth beforehand enough with the world to be building bridges should know that, when all our troops are provided with such an arm, then will their platoons in serried ranks be as a solid wall breathing fire, and as impregnable as the lines of English archers with long bows, or the phalanx of Macedon. And, when each man bears a pistol instead of the misericorde, his life will be far more his own.”
Ebbo’s face was in full light, and his visitor marked his contracted brow and trembling lip. “Ah!” he said, “thou hast had foul experience of these weapons.”
“Not mine own hurt,” said Ebbo; “that was but fair chance of war.”