“Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name, I cannot tremble at it,” said Guiderius contemptuously. “Were it Toad, or Adder, or Spider, it would move me sooner.”
“To thy further fear—nay, to thy utter confusion—thou shalt know I am son to the Queen,” said Cloten braggingly.
“I am sorry for it, not seeming so worthy as thy birth.”
“Art not afraid?” demanded Cloten.
“Those that I reverence, those I fear—the wise,” answered Guiderius. “At fools I laugh, not fear them.”
“Die the death!” cried Cloten, springing at him. “When I have slain thee with my own hand, I’ll follow those that even now fled hence, and on the gates of Lud’s town set your heads. Yield, rustic mountaineer.”
But the “rustic mountaineer” had no intention of yielding, and it was the head of the foolish Cloten that presently paid the penalty for its owner’s blustering insolence.
Safe in the love and protection of her unknown brothers, Imogen had lived for some few days in their cave, making bright the rude dwelling with little womanly graces. Her new friends had taken her straight to their hearts, and in especial Arviragus, the younger Prince, felt for this stranger a deep attachment which he was unable to explain. But all united in praise of Fidele. Belarius noted his noble bearing and gracious manners, which spoke of good breeding. “How angel-like he sings!” put in Arviragus; and Guiderius commended the daintiness of his cooking, which served dishes fit for the banquet of some goddess.