Then she signed with her hand, and six mutes in black armour,
As by magic appeared, laid their lances in rest,
And directed their points to the herald’s bare breast,—
A sight which it must be confessed might alarm a
Brave man in those very unscrupulous days,
When a life more or less, was a mere bagatelle;
And when sticking a porker, or stabbing a swell,
Were alike household duties—a singular phase
In those “sweet” Middle Ages, on which such dependence is
Placed by young ladies with “Puseyite” tendencies.