"Are you going?" I demanded.
"Not me!" he answered, turning to spit at a butterfly that hovered near. "I'm a free-born Briton, I am, as scorns the furrin' yoke!"
Hereupon I rose, that is to say, I forced my unwilling body upon my shaking legs and faced him.
"Then I must do my best to make you!" said I, with as much stern resolution in voice and look as I could summon.
"What—you?" exclaimed the Peddler, regarding me with eye of scorn. "You—eh?" he repeated. "Well, burn my neck, there's imperence for ye!"
"Put up your hands!" said I.
"What—fight, is it?"
"It is!" said I. "Unless you prefer to depart immediately."
"Well, twist my innards!" exclaimed the Peddler, laying aside his brooms. "The owdacious young willin'! Wants t' fight! An' 'im sich a young whipper-snapper!"
He was a middle-aged man, squat of figure with short, plump legs, but I thought him formidable enough and felt the old nauseating fear growing upon me as I watched the determined manner in which he prepared for the approaching combat. Having removed his pack and the multifarious articles that draped his person, he took off his coat, folded it neatly and laid it by, which done, he slowly rolled up his shirt sleeves, eyeing me fiercely and scowling portentously the while. Now as I watched him, my sweating palms tight-clenched, my jaws hard-locked to prevent my teeth from chattering, the thought occurred to me that the hurts I was about to endure and endeavour to inflict should not only save Diana from evil, but might also prove to her (and myself) if I were indeed possessed of that thing she called 'game-pluck.'