“I am, rather,” Hi said. The darkness of the man seemed to edge a shade nearer.
“I love angels,” the man said.
“That’s right,” Hi said.
“I always loved angels,” the man said, “since a boy.”
“Stick to them,” Hi said; “you can’t do better.”
“You blasted young swine,” the man screamed, making a rush. “I’ll cut your gall and your milt and your pancridge.”
Hi had expected the rush; he slipped to the left as it surged out at him. The man had expected this movement; he slashed out sideways with his knife, but missed. He was after Hi on the instant, roaring, as he rushed, his war cry of “Harrar.” Hi twisted sharp to his right; the man followed, he seemed horribly near. Hi heard a splash, followed by an oath, and a fall; the man had put a foot into the drain and fallen.
Hi fled to the door into the hall, where he paused; the man had not risen; he was lying in a heap in the well or drain, muttering oaths. The fall may have hurt him: it had certainly knocked the fight out of him.
“Will you come and give me a hand up?” he said.
“No.”