“His fist, Samson?”
“Yes, sir. There was his sword in it, of course, and the pommel hit me right on the nose; and before I could get over it, he was off along with the rest, full gallop, and I was sitting on the ground, thinking about my mother and what a mess I was in, and my horse looking as if he was ashamed of me, as I was of myself. I wonder he didn’t gallop off, too; but I s’pose he thought he wouldn’t get a better master.”
“But your face, Samson? It looks horrid.”
“Well, I can’t help that, Master Fred, can I? Didn’t make my own face. Good enough to come and fight with.”
“Come along with me to the surgeon.”
“What, and leave my horse? Not I, sir.”
“A man’s wounds are of more consequence than a horse.”
“Who says so? I think a mortal deal more o’ my horse than I do o’ my wounds. ’Sides I arn’t got no wounds.”
“You have, and don’t know it. You have quite a mask of blood on your face. It is hideous.”
“Yah! that’s nothing. It’s my nose. It always was a one to bleed. Whenever that brother o’ mine, who went to grief and soldiering, used to make me smell his fist, my nose always bled, and his fist was quite as hard as that hard-riding R’y’list chap’s. Called me a Roundhead dog, too, he did, as he hit me. If I’d caught him, I’d ha’ rounded his head for him.”