The little creature scuttled away like a rat, but the giant had his hands on her before she could get to the door.
“Now for the lucky one, thou sweet hellicat, the one right i’ th’ middle,” cried he, swinging her up to him as though she had been a squirrel.
“Unhand me, foreign dog!” she cried, with a snort of defiance, “else I will bite thee in the cheek.”
“Do thou, sweet adder, for I love thee.”
“There, you large villain!”
She darted her strong teeth, flashing with whiteness, at him, and he dropped her with an oath, as though she had been a snake. She made off out of doors as nimbly as a cat, leaving the astonished giant to staunch yet another wound she had dealt him.
“By my soul”—he pressed his hands to his ribs and his face grew empurpled with his roars—“I have the greatest mind in the world to marry that pretty doxey.”
CHAPTER VII
OF THE DISABILITIES THAT ATTEND ON GENTLE BIRTH
“Sir Richard Pendragon,” said I, when at last the immoderation of his mirth would permit me to address him, “I make you my service. I owe it to your clemency that I retain my life.”
“My young companion,” said he, “I pray you not to mention so small an affair. I did but require a little exercise for mine arm. I had no mind whatever to slay you.”