Corund chuckled in his beard, but his brow darkened somewhat. “I pray what age dost thou take me of?” said he. “I bare a sword when thou was yet in swaddling clothes. Behold mine armies, and what advantage I hold upon you. Oh, my sword is enchanted, my lord: it will not out of the scabbard.”
Brandoch Daha smiled disdainfully, and said to Spitfire, “Mark well, I pray thee, this great lord of Witchland. How many true fingers hath a Witch on his left hand?”
“As many as on his right,” said Spitfire.
“Good. And how many on both?”
“Two less than a deuce,” said Spitfire; “for they be false fazarts to the fingers’ ends.”
“Very well answered,” said Lord Brandoch Daha.
“You’re pleasant,” Corund said. “But your fusty jibes move me not a whit. It were a simple part indeed to take thine offer when all wise counsels bid me use my power and crush you.”
“Thou’dst kill me soon with thy mouth,” said Brandoch Daha. “In sum, thou art a brave man when it comes to roaring and swearing: a big bubber of wine, as men say to drink drunk is an ordinary matter with thee every day in the week; but I fear thou durst not fight.”
“Doth not thy nose swell at that?” said Spitfire.
But Corund shrugged his shoulders. “A footra for your baits!” he answered. “I am scarce bounden to do such a kindness to you of Demonland as lay down mine advantage and fight alone, against a sworder. Your old foxes are seldom taken in springes.”