“You it is, disloyal knave? You!”
“Disloyal or not,” calmly returned the cavalier, “I demand reparation for the slight you have offered to this respectable assemblage. Your free fashions may do for Flanders—where I presume you’ve been practising them—but I must teach you to salute the fair maidens of England in a different style.”
“And who are you, who propose to give the lesson?”
“No low-born peasant, Captain Richard Scarthe! Don’t fancy you can screen yourself behind that coward’s cloak. You must fight, or apologise?”
“Apologise!” shouted the soldier, in a furious voice, “Captain Scarthe apologise! Ha! ha! ha! Hear that Cornet Stubbs? Did you ever know me to apologise?”
“Never, by Ged!” muttered Stubbs in reply.
“As you will then,” said the cavalier, placing himself in an attitude to commence the combat.
“No, no!” cried Maid Marian, throwing herself in front of Holtspur, as if to screen his body with her own. “You must not, sir. It is not fair. He is in armour, and you, sir—”
“No—it arn’t fair!” proclaimed several voices; while at the same moment, a large fierce-looking man, with bushy black beard, was seen pushing his way through the crowd towards the spot occupied by the adversaries.
“Twoant do, Master Henry,” cried the bearded man as he came up. “You mustn’t risk it that way. I know ye’re game for any man on the groun’, or in England eyther; but it arn’t fair. The sodger captain must peel off them steel plates o’ his; and let the fight be a fair ’un. What say ye, meeats?”