“Nay, Fool, indeed he that saved me was tall and seemly man, very fierce and strong in fight, but to me wondrous gentle—in truth, something timorous, and, 'spite rusty mail, spake and looked like a noble knight.”
“Then forsooth, lady, thy champion is no comrade of mine, for he is but a poor rogue, ill-beseen, ill-kempt, ill-spoken, ill-mannered and altogether ill, save only that he is my friend—”
“And thou speakest ill of thy ill friend, the which is ill in thee—ill Fool!” and the fair Melissa rose.
“And pray, lady, didst learn thy preserver's name?”
“Indeed, for I asked him.”
“And it was—?”
“Pertinax!” she sighed.
“Pertinax!” said Jocelyn, both in the same moment; the dark-browed Melissa sat down again.
“So thy comrade and—he are one, Fool?”
“Indeed, lady. Yet here we have him, on the one hand, a man noble and seemly, and, on the other, a poor rogue, hook-nosed, ill-beseen, ill—”