“‘As I was jawing to the gav yeck divvus
I met on the drom miro Rommany chi—’”
“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.”
The fellow stared at me with a look of stupid ferocity, and appeared to be hesitating whether to strike or not: ere he could make up his mind, the tall girl stepped forward, crying, “He’s chaffing; let me at him;” and, before I could put myself on my guard, she struck me a blow on the face which had nearly brought me to the ground.
“Enough,” said I, putting my hand to my cheek; “you have now performed your promise, and made me wipe my face: now be pacified, and tell me fairly the ground of this quarrel.”
“Grounds!” said the fellow; “didn’t you say I was afraid; and if you hadn’t, who gave you leave to camp on my ground?”
“Is it your ground?” said I.
“A pretty question,” said the fellow; “as if all the world didn’t know that. Do you know who I am?”