“Why, the brute’s chained. You need no armour. Nonsense!”
“But think of my clothes in that pit, sir,—on my wedding-day.”
“Pooh! That’s the first sign of a Frenchman I’ve seen in you. Take the keys, sir.”
The crackle of the kindling fagots came to Geoffrey’s ears. He saw the forty men with chains that were to haul the Dragon into the fire.
“But there’s Father Anselm yet to come,” he protested. “Surely we wait for him.”
“I’ll wait for nobody. He with his Crusades and rubbish! Haven’t I got this Dragon, and there’s no Crusade?—Ah, Cousin Modus, glad you could come over. Just in time. The sherry’s to your left. Yes, it’s a very fine day. Yes, yes, this is Geoffrey my girl’s to marry and all that.—What do I care about Father Anselm?” the old gentleman resumed testily, when his cousin Modus had shuffled off. “Come, sir.”
He gave the keys into Geoffrey’s unwilling hand, and ordered silence proclaimed.
“Hearken, good friends!” said he, and all talk and going to and fro ceased. The tenantry stood down in the court-yard, a mass of motionless russet and yellow, every face watching the Baron. The gentry swarmed noiselessly out upon the steps behind him, their handsome dresses bright against the Manor walls. There was a short pause. Old Gaffer Piers made a slight disturbance falling over with his cup of ale, but was quickly set on his feet by his neighbours. The sun blazed down, and the growling of the Dragon came from the pit.