"'Tis nectar, from a hand fair as Hebe's," said I, quaffing deeply.
The lustre left her face, and she looked stonily upon me, whereat in some surprise I said—
"Why, mistress, have I said aught amiss?"
"Nay, sir, what you say is naught to me, but—but I like not to be equalled with some English wench."
"Good now!" said I, and could not forbear smiling. "Know you, mistress, that Hebe was no English wench, but a fair maiden of most illustrious lineage, daughter of gods, herself a goddess, eternally young, and her office was to bear the wine-cup of the high Olympians, and I bethink me she was given as wife to Hercules himself."
"Oh, mock me not with your Hebes and your Hercules!" she cried in a pet. "I wish I had not brought you drink."
"Nay, madam, for that I thank you heartily; and I shall hope to give you a better opinion of those of whom the poets sing, after this business is concluded."
"A long after, I fear me," she said, with a look of trouble.
"Why no; I trow we have taught them a lesson," I said.
"You English are puffed up with your own conceit," she cried scornfully. "Think you an Irishman, and Rory Mac Shane, will be daunted by one failure? He is reputed the best fighter of all men hereabout. But indeed, Master Rudd"—and 'twas marvellous how sudden her mood would change—"indeed, we talk idly, when my poor servants lie wounded. Help me, good sir, to tend them."