Hildebrand laughed mockingly.
“Shall I not, rascal? Is it still the King who commands me?” he asked, and his fingers closed tighter upon his sword-hilt.
The voice seemed ever to speak in Robert’s ear, and ever Robert obeyed its prompting.
“ROBERT, SWINGING THE CROSS, WITH ONE BLOW BEAT HIM TO THE GROUND”
“No,” he cried. “It is not the King who commands you, but the humblest, the meanest, the unworthiest of mortal men. There is no creature living in the world lowlier than I, yet I command you in the name of that symbol which casts down the mighty, and before which the King and the beggar are alike but a little quickened dust.”
Spurred by inspiration he rushed to the altar and clasped his hands around the iron cross. Scarcely to his surprise he found that he could lift the massive symbol like a reed. Poising the cross on high he turned upon Hildebrand.
“Will you set your cross against my sword?” Hildebrand cried. “You shall carry it to hell.”
Robert answered with the voice of a strong man.