A gleaming shaft of steel whistled across the sight of Sir Francis.
“Halt there!” thundered Geoffrey, leaping between the two, and posing his sword for a lunge.
“My hour has come,” Sir Francis thought. For he was cased in the stiff hide, and could do nothing in defence.
“Now shalt thou lick the earth with thy lying tongue,” said Geoffrey.
A sneer came through the gaping teeth of the crocodile.
“Valiant, indeed!” the voice said. “Very valiant and knightly, oh son of Bertram of Poictiers! Frenchmen know when to be bold. Ha! ha!”
“Crawl out of that nut, thou maggot,” answered Geoffrey, “and taste thy doom.”
Here was a chance, the gift of a fool. The two white hands appeared and shifted the mask aside, letting them see a cunning hope on his face.
“Do not go further, sir,” said Elaine. “It is for the good of us all that you abide where you are. As I shall explain.”
“What is this, Elaine?” said Geoffrey.