“And the wreath—of parsley, I suppose?”
Now Lemprière understood, and he shook with fury as he roared:
“Yes, by God, and to be got at the point of the sword, to put on the heads of insolents like Lord Leicester!” His face was flaming, he was like a cock strutting upon a stable mound.
There fell a slight pause, and then Leicester said, “To-morrow at daylight, eh?”
“Now, my lord, now!”
“We have no seconds.”
“’Sblood! ’Tis not your way, my lord, to be stickling in detail of courtesy.”
“’Tis not the custom to draw swords in secret, Lemprière of Rozel. Also, my teeth are not on edge to fight you.”
Lemprière had already drawn his sword, and the look of his eyes was as that of a mad bull in a ring. “You won’t fight with me—you don’t think Rozel your equal?” His voice was high.
Leicester’s face took on a hard, cruel look. “We cannot fight among the ladies,” he said, quietly.