“Insolent dog,” cried Sir Mark.
“What!” retorted the founder, “do you pull your blade on me? Then you shall see that we have steel as well.”
Sir Mark had risen and drawn his sword, evidently with some mad idea that it was his duty to arrest this utterer of treason on the spot; but, with an activity of which he might not have been believed capable, Jeremiah Cobbe sprang to the side of the room, snatched a sword from the wall, drew, and crossed that of the young courtier. There was a harsh grating, a few quick thrusts and parries, as the open window was slightly darkened, and Sir Mark uttered a sharp cry, for his adversary’s sword passed like lightning through his arm, and he staggered back, as an upbraiding voice exclaimed—“Oh, father, father, what have you done?”
How Sir Mark Stayed at the Park House, and jeremiah cobbe delivered a Homily on Angling.
It was Mace’s voice, as she ran into the room, pale with horror when she saw the red blood darken the russet velvet of the young man’s sleeve.
“Done!” cried Cobbe, “What do I always do, my girl? Acted like the passionate old fool I am. Poor boy!” he ejaculated, as the sword dropped from Sir Mark’s hand, and white as Mace’s self the King’s messenger sank fainting on his adversary’s arm, to be lowered gently to the floor. “God knows, child, I’d give five hundred pounds to undo it all. He angered me, and drew, and the sight of the naked steel made the blood come into my eyes. Poor boy—poor boy! A brave youth, though he fretted and strutted and bullied me so. That’s better. Hi, Janet, some cold water. Stop, child, don’t rip his fine jacket or he’ll break his heart. My faith on it, he’ll think more of the holes in his velvet than in his skin. Steady! hold him up a little, and I’ll strip off his fine coat. That’s it; now, a little more; never mind the drop of blood, it won’t kill him.”
“I know, father,” said Mace, “but put away those swords;” and she held up the wounded man’s head as her father cleverly removed the velvet doublet and turned up the fine white linen shirt, whose sleeve was stained with blood. The wound could now be seen, or rather wounds—two narrow clean cuts on either side of the fleshy part of the arm, from which the blood pretty freely welled.
“Now lay his head down again, my child. No: better not. Here’s Janet. Sake’s girl! Don’t stand staring. Put the basin here. Some strips of linen. That’s right, child,” he continued, as Mace snatched off her white kerchief and tore it up.
“It weighs full thirty pounds,” cried a hearty voice in the entry. “Hey, hallo, what’s wrong? A wounded man?”