"It wad be weel done," said Tam, "if ane durst;"—for he wanted to blow up the poet's wrath, for the sake of a little sport.
"Durst!" said the poet, "durst!—If none other dare, I shall, in spite of all his hellish arts. Durst! that is a good one,—to be dursted with an old sackbut!"
They did not hear what answer Delany made to the extraordinary information, as they took it, that, by learning the little black book, she was to be redeemed from death; for the fierce jealousy of the enamoured bard prevented them. But when they listened again so as to hear distinctly, the friar was still increasing in fervency. All that he said was in raptures of divine ecstacy; while his associates, who knew nothing, and cared as little about these things, understood it in another way.
"For I say unto thee, if thou wilt suffer me to instil these truths into thee, thou shalt both blossom and bring forth fruit abundantly; yea, thou shalt shine as the stars in the firmament of heaven. Seest thou yon sun that walketh above the clouds in majesty and brightness? Beyond yon sun shall thine habitation be fixed; and the blue arch that encircles the regions of the air, which thou hast so often seen studded over with diamonds, shall be unto thee a pavement whereon thou shalt tread. All this and more shalt thou possess, if thou wilt learn and obey the things that are written in this book, where it is said by one that cannot err, 'Lo, I will be always with you, and my arms shall be underneath and around you, and when you are faint and weary I will hide you in my bosom.'"
"For the blood that is in your body dare to attempt such a thing!" cried the enraged poet. "Down with hypocrisy and sensuality together! Hurray for the combat, and God defend the right!"
So, crying as loud as he could yell, he pulled out his sword, and rode furiously up between Delany and the friar, shoving the latter rudely as he passed. The maiden's palfrey sprung away, but the friar's mule only leaned with all his might to the poet's steed as he pressed against him in passing; and feeling his prop give way, he leaned round in the same direction, till his tail was exactly where his head was before; and then, dreading some abhorred exertion, he set his feet asunder, and stood immovable. The poet drew up, and wheeled about, and seeing still the hinder parts of the friar and his beast, he cried, exultingly, "Ay, you are more ready to seduce an innocent and lovely maiden, than to answer for the crime! Vile lump of sin and hypocrisy! turn round and meet me face to face, that I may chastise thee for thy graceless attempt!"
The friar spurred most furiously, but the mule only dashed his head downward and his heels in a contrary direction, and kept his position. All the rest were like to burst with laughter, which still increasing the bard's insolence, he fumed about enchantments and the black art, and dared the friar to turn and look him in the face.
What with one provocation, what with another, the friar's angry passions were roused; and, not being able to make his mule turn round, he drew out his sword, saying at the same time in a voice of great vehemence, "God do so to me and more also, if I make not—"
He got no farther with his speech, for the mule interrupted him. Obstinate as the brute was, the sight of the sword, and the sound of his master's angry voice operated on him like magic. Perhaps he understood that all further opposition was vain,—for in one moment he wheeled around, his eyes gleaming with rage; and pricking up his ears to see where the storm of his and his master's wrath was to alight, he perceived the poet on his tall steed, brandishing his dazzling sword, and forthwith darted at them with the swiftness of an arrow, and a fury not to be checked. There were no more words nor threatenings passed between the enraged combatants; for more space of time there was none before the mule had his shoulder to that of the poet's steed, his teeth fixed in his flank, and was pushing with the fury of an enraged bull.
On the closing of the two steeds the riders likewise engaged, the poet coming on with a downward stroke, which the friar received with great indifference on his sword crossed above his cowl. But knowing well the nature of his beast, he kept up the poet's sword and arm both, until the sides of the two animals were jammed together, as the rider of the mule well knew they would be. By that time the poet's arm was pressed up straight by his ear, and his sword pointed to heaven; and in endeavouring to free his elbow from the hilt of the friar's sword, he lost his balance. At the same instant their feet encountering in the stirrups, and the friar's being below that of his opponent, he gave him such a ketch with his right foot and sword-arm together, that he made him fly from his horse to a great distance, in a sort of arching direction; and the unfortunate poet, falling on his shoulder and head, was wofully bruised, and utterly discomfited.