My daughter GILLIAN remonstrateth:
GILL: Now, father, please don't let him die—
MYSELF: No, no, indeed, my Gill, not I,
My heroes take a lot of killing—
GILL: Then go on quick, it's very thrilling!
I hope he vanquishes his foes,
And let him do it, please, in prose.
“O woe!” said a quavering voice. “Alack, and well-a-wey—”
My daughter GILLIAN demurreth:
GILL: No, father—that's not right at all.
You'd got to where you'd made him fall.
MYSELF: Well, then, Duke Joc'lyn, from his swoon awaking,
Found that his head confoundedly was aching;
Found he was bruised all down from top to toe—
GILL: A bruise, father, and he a duke? No, no!
Besides, you make
A frightful mistake—
A hero's head should never ache;
And, father, now, whoever knew
A hero beaten black and blue?
And then a bruise, it seems to me,
Is unromantic as can be.
He can't be bruised,
And shan't be bruised,
For, if you bruise him,
And ill-use him,
I'll refuse him—
No reader, I am sure, would choose
A hero any one can bruise.
So, father, if you want him read,
Don't bruise him, please—
MYSELF: Enough is said!
At this, Jocelyn sat up and wondered to find himself in a small chamber dim-lit by a smoking cresset. On one side of him leaned an ancient woman, a very hag-like dame
With long, sharp nose that downward curved as though
It fain would, beak-like, peck sharp chin below;
and upon his other side a young damsel of a wondrous dark beauty.
“Lady,” said he, “where am I?”
“Hush, poor Motley!” whispered the maid. “Thou didst fall 'gainst the door yonder. But speak low, they that seek thy life may yet be nigh.”