They stood agaze, each on other, joy of the coming battle in their young eyes. Then they kissed.
Jack Straw got to his feet with a bound:—
“Thou,—thou,—thou!” he gasped.—“Spy!—Cokenay!—Thou?”
So he began to laugh his soft laughter, and turned him to Calote with:—
“Two year!—And this was his pilgrimage,—to lie under hedge with”—
But Stephen had sprung upon him and they clinched, rocking this way and that, the while Calote wrung her hands.
Long Will would have meddled in that mêlée to thrust apart those two, but Kitte caught his arm:—
“Let be!” she said. “The squire 's better man! he 'll win.”
And so it was, for Jack Straw knew not to wrestle; he was a lean, pale wight. He had a bodkin in his belt, but was not time to draw, and presently he lay on the floor, face down, and Stephen on his back, kneeling.
“Now say thy prayer!” said Stephen.