“It was thy shield that fell, thou awkward dog. Wilt thou make me a reproach in the eyes of these strangers from the Stars? What hast thou to say for thyself?”
We saw the poor fellow turn pale under his dusky skin.
“It was by chance, O Calf of the Black Cow,” he murmured.
“Then it is a chance for which thou must pay. Thou hast made me foolish; prepare for death.”
“I am the king’s ox,” was the low answer.
“Scragga,” roared the king, “let me see how thou canst use thy spear. Kill me this blundering fool.”
Scragga stepped forward with an ill-favoured grin, and lifted his spear. The poor victim covered his eyes with his hand and stood still. As for us, we were petrified with horror.
“Once, twice,” he waved the spear, and then struck, ah! right home—the spear stood out a foot behind the soldier’s back. He flung up his hands and dropped dead. From the multitude about us rose something like a murmur, it rolled round and round, and died away. The tragedy was finished; there lay the corpse, and we had not yet realised that it had been enacted. Sir Henry sprang up and swore a great oath, then, overpowered by the sense of silence, sat down again.
“The thrust was a good one,” said the king; “take him away.”
Four men stepped out of the ranks, and lifting the body of the murdered man, carried it thence.