“The worse luck mine,” said the black-bearded giant, with a hoarse laugh, “for ye English let no thieves thrive here but yourselves!”
The wit was just suited to the audience, and another loud laugh broke out, amid which the giant added coolly—
“If ye would know who I am, my name is Wolf, and I can bite!”
“Say’st thou so, Master Wolf?” cried a big man-at-arms, holding up his heavy spear. “Thou talk’st big, but can thy teeth crush a bone like that?”
The giant seized the strong shaft, and with one jerk of his mighty hands broke it like a biscuit.
“Not ill done for an outlander!” cried another man, patronizingly; for John Bull in the fourteenth century was even more John Bullish than now. “Hast a mind to join us, comrade? Thou wouldst be a right stalwart recruit.”
“Of that hereafter,” said the Black Wolf (for it was indeed he), “but first I would tell your general some news that I have learned of the doings of Bertrand du Guesclin.”
“Ha! know’st thou aught of him?” cried a dozen voices at once. “What is thy news, then? Let us hear.”
“Now, comrades, is this fair?” said the Wolf, in an injured tone. “If I be the first to bring news to your general, belike he will reward me well; but if a score of others know it already, what profit have I?”
“Thou wast not born yesterday, lad,” said a tall archer, chuckling, “and if it be as thou say’st, I had best go call our captain, and report the matter to him.”