Jacques Sar— Right.
Bacqueur— You're right.
Hugh Capet—Let's bring him down!
Shouts— Right! Bring him! Bring him down!
Jardin—Here, men, put on those caps. You think you're saints?
If you can fly through air, why bring him down;
You can't, then hush and hear what Jardin says.
First then I'd say: "Bring down the monk." Then this:
There's a big fellow on the mountain tops
What calls Thor Father, spitting at our Lord.
And in the dawn when Christians gather here
To holy mass he stands upon the peaks
And scowls upon the bells. He and the witch
Are brain and bowels to some heathen god
Whose dark hand works at night beneath the hills
Sapping the towers of Christ. Saints, send him down.
Tell him to strap his big old martel on him.
He comes down here he'll feel a damaskin
That's sliced the Turks and choked the gates of hell
With ghosts of Allah, and another'll go
Bloody and hot to Thor. (Shouts.)
Send him down, saints.
Some one here says, "If Canzler comes, what then?"
He'll die. Who'll do it? Listen: Jardin will.
(He comes down into the crowd that surges and clamors about him.)
Line up! (He chooses nine men, whom he arranges in squads of three.)
A Man— (In the first squad.)
About those spears.
Jardin—Stop at the armory.
(He produces a great key.)