‘I should not wonder,’ said an eleventh.
‘He can’t,’ said a twelfth, ‘he has lost his sceptre.’
‘You don’t say so?’ said a thirteenth.
‘It is too true,’ said a fourteenth.
‘Do you think he was a wizard?’ said a fifteenth. ‘I vow, if there be not a fellow looking at us behind those trees.’
‘Impudent scoundrel!’ said a sixteenth. ‘I wish it were Alroy. Let us all scream, and put down our veils.’
And the group ran away.
Two stout soldiers were playing chess[80] in a coffee-house.
‘May I slay my mother,’ said one, ‘but I cannot make a move. I fought under him at Nehauend; and though I took the amnesty, I have half a mind now to seize my sword and stab the first Turk that enters.’
‘‘Twere but sheer justice,’ said his companion. ‘By my father’s blessing, he was the man for a charge. They may say what they like, but compared with him, Alp Arslan is a white-livered Giaour.’