“Oh, my sheep!” groaned many a poor farmer.
“Oh, my Burgundy!” groaned Sir Godfrey.
“In that case,” exclaimed Elaine, her cheeks pink with excitement, “I shall try the virtue of the legend, at any rate.”
“Most impious, my daughter, most impious will such conduct be in the sight of Mother Church,” said Father Anselm.
“Hear me, all people!” shouted Sir Godfrey, foreseeing that before the next Crusade came every drop of wine in his cellar would be swallowed by the Dragon; “hear me proclaim and solemnly promise: legend true or legend false, my daughter shall not face this risk. But if her heart go with it, her hand shall be given to that man who by night or light brings me this Dragon, alive or dead!”
“A useless promise, Sir Godfrey!” said Father Anselm, shrugging his shoulders. “We dare not discredit the word of thy respected grandsire.”
“My respected grandsire be——”
“What?” said the Abbot.
“Became a credit to his family,” said the Baron, quite mildly; “and I slight no word of his. But he did not contradict this legend in the vision, I think.”