“Good heavens!” said the Baron, getting behind a hogshead, “what a brute!”
“Perhaps it might be useful if I excommunicated him,” said the Rev. Hucbald, who had come in rather late, with his clerical frock-coat buttoned over his pyjamas.
“Pooh!” said the Baron. “As if he’d care for that.”
“Very few men can handle a dragon,” said Geoffrey, unconcernedly, and stroked his upper lip, where a kindly-disposed person might see there was going to be a moustache some day.
“I don’t know exactly what you mean to imply by that, young man,” said the Baron, coming out from behind the hogshead and puffing somewhat pompously.
“Why, zounds!” he exclaimed, “I left you locked up this afternoon, and securely. How came you here?”
Geoffrey coughed, for it was an awkward inquiry.
“Answer me without so much throat-clearing,” said the Baron.
“I’ll clear my throat as it pleases me,” replied Geoffrey hotly. “How I came here is no affair of yours that I can see. But ask Father Anselm himself, and he will tell you.” This was a happy thought, and the youth threw a look at the Dragon, who nodded slightly. “I have a question to ask you, sir,” Geoffrey continued, taking a tone and manner more polite. Then he pointed to the Dragon with his sword, and was silent.
“Well?” said Sir Godfrey, “don’t keep me waiting.”