At the sound of his voice, the persecuted individual in the corner turned around suddenly; but the stranger's face was buried in his drinking-cup, and he soon relapsed into his former state.
"So, so, friend, feed first, and sing afterward; take a good pull at the liquor, and then sing us a song of Dick Redwood, the coward who trembles at his own footsteps."
Dick here turned round somewhat fiercely, and muttered: "I can fight, ye know that well enough, ye fools; there's not an arm here or in Yorkshire that can swing a battle-axe like mine. Would'st thou see if it is any weaker than it was when it tossed Gaspard, the Frenchman, over the wall, like a ball out of a culverin? Look!" and the man bared the muscular limb, and thrust it under his companion's nose.
"Ay, ay, he can fight; see that?" said one of the men, with a shout of mocking laughter.
"True, with a cat," said the tormentor coolly, laying down the sword and taking up a corselet, which he proceeded to rub with the most perfect indifference to the gathering rage of his victim, who at length burst out, his voice trembling with rage:
"Knave, thou liest! down on thy knees, or I will shake every bone from thy carrion body! Down, like a dog, as thou art!"
The man shook the other's grasp from his collar, and, stepping back a pace or two, cried: "I recant! I recant! Hear all! I take back what I said touching the most worshipful master Dick Redwood, having therein uttered a foul lie, and do positively affirm that he cannot fight with a cat, except the poor animal be somewhat weak in the legs."
Amid the roar of merriment which followed this sally, the infuriated man seized a huge cleaver, and swinging it round his head as though it were a feather, soon cleared a circle around him, and was about to spring on his tormentor, who was somewhat alarmed at the spirit his taunts had at last aroused, and all dreaded a combat with a man whose personal prowess had been undisputed before this unnatural sullen fit had come over him.
There was a death-like pause; then suddenly the eye of the soldier fell on the minstrel. The change that one look caused in him was marvellous. The color fled from his inflamed face, his eyes stared wildly, his limbs seemed scarcely able to sustain him, and the arm wielding the weapon dropped nerveless at his side. He put his hands to his brow, and muttered something of fiends pursuing him, and blood on his head, and then with one bound he cleared the circle, and dashed out of the door into the darkness.
"I told you he was mad, Tom Jennet. Why did you hunt him so? He is crazed no doubt, by a fall he had over the cliffs some weeks ago, and has been strange ever since. Come, Sir Minstrel, now for your song, to drive this crack-brained fellow from our thoughts."