“Oh, I’ve been through all that sort of thing over in Poictiers,” Geoffrey answered with indifference.
“You’re a rogue, sir, as I’ve told you before. Ha! Uncle Mortmain, how d’ye do? Yes, this is Geoffrey. Where’s my boy Roland? Coming, is he? Well, he had better look sharp. It’s after eleven, and I’ll wait for nobody. How d’ye do, John Stiles? That bull you sold me ’s costing thirty shillings a year in fences. You’ll find something ready down by those tables, I think.”
Hark to that roar! The crowd jostled together in the court-yard, for it sounded terribly close.
“The Dragon’s quite safe in the pit, good people,” shouted Sir Godfrey. “A few more minutes and you’ll all see him.”
The old gentleman continued welcoming the new arrivals, chatting heartily, with a joke for this one and a kind inquiry for the other. But wretched Geoffrey! So the Dragon was to be seen in a few minutes! And where were the monks of Oyster-le-Main? Still, a bold face must be kept. He was thankful that Elaine, after the custom of brides, was invisible. The youth’s left hand rested upon the hilt of his sword; he was in rich attire, and the curly hair that surrounded his forehead had been carefully groomed. Half-way up the stone steps as he stood, his blue eyes watching keenly for the monks, he was a figure that made many a humble nymph turn tender glances upon him. Old Piers, the ploughman, remained beside a barrel of running ale and drank his health all day. For he was a wonderful old man.
Hither and thither the domestics scurried swiftly, making preparations. Some were cooking rare pasties of grouse and ptarmigan, goslings and dough-birds; some were setting great tables in-doors and out; and some were piling fagots for the Dragon’s funeral pyre. Popham, with magnificent solemnity and a pair of new calves, gave orders to Meeson and Welsby, and kept little Whelpdale panting for breath with errands; while in and out, between everybody’s legs, and over or under all obstacles, stalked the two ravens Croak James and Croak Elizabeth, a big white wedding-favour tied round the neck of each. To see these grave birds, none would have suspected how frequently they had been in the mince-pies that morning, though Popham had expressly ruled (in somewhat stilted language) that they should “take nothink by their bills.”
“Geoffrey,” said the Baron, “I think we’ll begin. Popham, tell them to light that fire there.”
“The guests are still coming, sir,” said Geoffrey.
“No matter. It is half after eleven.” The Baron showed his sun-dial, and there was no doubt of it. “Here, take the keys,” he said, “and bring the monster out for us.”
“I’ll go and put on my armour,” suggested the young man. That would take time; perhaps the monks might arrive.