“Afraid at what?—at that lad? Why, he looks like a ghost—I would engage to thrash him with one hand.”
“You might beat me with no hands at all,” said I, “fair damsel, only by looking at me: I never saw such a face and figure, both regal—why, you look like Ingeborg, Queen of Norway; she had twelve brothers, you know, and could lick them all, though they were heroes—
“‘On Dovrefeld in Norway,
Were once together seen,
The twelve heroic brothers
Of Ingeborg the queen.’”
“None of your chaffing, young fellow,” said the tall girl, “or I will give you what shall make you wipe your face; be civil, or you will rue it.”
“Well, perhaps I was a peg too high,” said I: “I ask your pardon—here’s something a bit lower—
“‘As I was jawing to the gav yeck divvus [{84a}]
I met on the drom miro Rommany chi—’” [{84b}]
“None of your Rommany chies, young fellow,” said the tall girl, looking more menacingly than before, and clenching her fist; “you had better be civil. I am none of your chies; and, though I keep company with gypsies or, to speak more proper, half and halfs, I would have you to know that I come of Christian blood and parents, and was born in the great house of Long Melford.”
“I have no doubt,” said I, “that it was a great house; judging from your size, I shouldn’t wonder if you were born in a church.”
“Stay, Belle,” said the man, putting himself before the young virago, who was about to rush upon me, “my turn is first.” Then, advancing to me in a menacing attitude, he said with a look of deep malignity, “‘Afraid’ was the word, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” said I, “but I think I wronged you; I should have said, aghast—you exhibited every symptom of one labouring under uncontrollable fear.”