“Your kerchief?” answered Potpan with another rude guffaw. “Ha! Ha! That’s a good one! Your kerchief, indeed! I found this kerchief myself, and I mean to keep it, too.”
“It is mine, Potpan,” replied poor Ailinda. “Give me my kerchief, Potpan.”
“I suppose you would wear it at the festival,” jeered Potpan. “The notion of your going to the festival! Go back to your kettles and pails!”
A pause of quiet now followed, and all at once Ailinda heard through the stillness the sound of a closing gate. Suddenly Aileel came striding swiftly to her side.
“Come, Potpan,” said Aileel sternly, “Give Ailinda my kerchief!”
“At your command, you wanderers’ brat?” cried Potpan, furious with rage. “Be off or I’ll teach you how I—” but here his speech came to an end; Aileel, turning swiftly as the wind, caught him in a wrestler’s grasp, held him fast, and undid the kerchief from his neck. This done, the young smith freed him and pushed him contemptuously aside. Hardly had he done this, however, when Potpan caught up a great stone and flung it, striking Aileel with it upon the hand.
And now there came a real tussle, for Potpan, though squat, was no mean antagonist. A real tussle it was, but a short one, for suddenly Aileel’s handsome face cleared, he laughed a little merry laugh even, and catching up Potpan in all his finery, held him high for all his kicking, walked with him a little space, and tossed him splash into the duck pond! You should have heard the squawking and the quacking of the ducks, and seen the scrambling, and the paddling, and the indignant tail-feather-shaking as Potpan fell into the mud-brown pool. One yellow duckling with cold wet feet walked on his ear.
But what an uproar awaited Aileel and Ailinda on their return from the festival!
Telling a wicked and lying story, Tharbis and Potpan had gone about among the villagers, picturing Aileel as a violent and dangerous ruffian whom it was unsafe to have about, and urging that the wanderers’ lad be sent away from the village. Now Tharbis was very rich, and there were many in his debt who dared not disagree with him; a dispute arose, the village took sides, and the partisans of Tharbis and Potpan snatched the victory. At the head of a crew of hangers-on armed with sticks and scythes, Tharbis and Potpan came in triumph to the smithy, held Braulio and his foster son to the wall, and bade the latter leave the village at once, never to return.
“I go, Potpan,” replied Aileel, the same strange little smile on his lips, “but I shall return some day, and I shall toss you into the duck pond once again.”