"From France, quotha? Nay, by my hilt, ye are going the wrong way. 'Tis to France that all stout-hearted men are wending their way."
"Nor will ye find me backward in that matter," replied Arnold stoutly. "We have but lately set foot in England and are sore in want of news. Discuss with us, I pray thee."
"Hast not heard that King Harry hath summoned all true Englishmen, knights, squires, men-at-arms and bowmen to assemble at Southampton for the taking of France? Such an army hath never before been equalled. They say that a chirurgeon and twelve others of his class are to go with us for the comfort of the sick and wounded."
"The first part of thy speech delights my heart, comrades, but concerning the latter, one leech in the field will, I trow, do more harm than a score of French lances."
"Thou speakest pertly, sir stranger. Methinks if thy comb were cut thy crowing would be somewhat less."
"Give me a stout broadsword, archer, and I'll warrant, old as I am, that thou wilt not clip it."
This was a direct challenge. In a moment all was confusion, some of the company shouting encouragement to the man-at-arms, others urging their comrade to carry out his threat, while the host of the Buckle besought his patrons to have regard for the good ordering of the inn.
"The loan of thy sword, friend," said Gripwell calmly, addressing himself to an archer who was shouting himself hoarse on his behalf.
"Take it comrade—but stay, where have I seen thy face before? Why, 'tis none other than Arnold Gripwell, who clove a Scot to the chin with his own claymore at Homildon Field."
"Then thou art Thomas Voysey, the archer who threw the ox over his shoulder in the market-place at York. By St. Thomas à Becket, to think that I did not recognize an old comrade ere this. Thy hand, Thomas; when this slight bickering is over I'll quaff a tankard with thee."