"'In hith hall,'" he shouted. "'And h-o-p-hop-e-s-t-hopest thou then unthscathed to go?'"
The boy's knees began to bend under him, and he was reaching a long, thin arm out behind hunting for the bench. He was fleeing. I knew it. I warned him.
"No—go on—read on."
Abraham sighed and drew his sleeve across his mouth from the elbow to the tips of his fingers. Then he sang:
"'Noby—Thent Bride—ofBoth—wellno—updraw—bridgegrooms—whatward—erho —lettheportculluthfall!'"
Young Spiker collapsed.
"'Lord Marmion turned; well was his need,'" I cried, "if Douglas ever addressed him in that fashion."
"Now watch me, boys," I added. And with as much fire as I could kindle in so short a time and under conditions so dampening, I thundered the resounding lines: "'No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge, grooms—what, warder, ho!'"
"'Let the portcullis fall!'" This last command rang from the back of the room. Perry Thomas stood there smiling.
"I couldn't have done it better myself, Mark," he said. "It's a splendid piece—that Manny-yon—ain't it—grand—noble. I love to say it."