But La Fireez said, “Ye sware peace with the Demons in the Foliot Isles, and by mighty oaths are ye bound to put by for ever your claims of lordship over Demonland. I hoped your quarrels were ended.”
“Why so they are,” said the King.
Corsus chuckled weakly. “Ye say well: very well, O King, very well, La Fireez. Our quarrels are ended. No room for more. For, look you, Demonland is a ripe fruit ready to drop me thus in our mouth.” Leaning back he gaped his mouth wide open, suspending by one leg above it an hortolan basted with its own dripping. The bird slipped through his fingers, and fell against his cheek, and so on to his bosom, and so on the floor, and his brazen byrny and the sleeves of his pale green kirtle were splashed with the gravy.
Whereat Corinius let fly a great peal of laughter; but La Fireez flushed with anger and said, scowling, “Drunkenness, my lord, is a jest for thralls to laugh at.”
“Then sit thou mum, Prince,” said Corinius, “lest thy quality be called in question. For my part I laugh at my thoughts, and they be very choice.”
But Corsus wiped his face and fell a-singing:
Whene’er I bib the wine down,
Asleepe drop all my cares.
A fig for fret,
A fig for sweat,