The lists were soon formed and orthodox weapons provided. The combatants took their places. Master Skogan convulsed the bystanders by pretending to be terribly frightened. He shook all over in the most humorous manner; rejected half-a-dozen cudgels as not stout enough for so terrible an occasion; affected to look for a soft place to tumble upon; and hoped that some kind gentleman would have compassion on his wife and family in case of fatal accidents. The cudgel play commenced, and the spectators still laughed; but the mortifying conviction was soon forced upon Skogan that they were no longer laughing with, but at him. The poet had assumed a nonchalant patronising air, as who should say, “We will get this ridiculous business swiftly and mercifully over,” which Jack imitated to the life, continuing, indeed, to burlesque every one of his adversary’s movements throughout the encounter. Our hero parried every blow, easily. Skogan’s jaunty smile deepened into rather an ill-favoured grin. He had made the serious mistake of underrating his opponent’s powers. Jack, on the other hand, had well calculated the weight of the peril he was incurring, and now brought all his nerve, muscle, and intellect to bear in meeting it. He depended on a chance for a peculiar stroke—one of Wat Smith’s teaching—of which he had seen Skogan to be ignorant. An opportunity for this offered itself. It was seized like lightning. A sharp ringing sound was heard. Skogan let fall his sword-arm, put his left hand up to his brow, and tried an unconcerned smile, as though the thing were a mere nothing, in the midst of which facial effort he fell senseless on his back with a fractured skull.
This was the manner in which Jack Falstaff broke Skogan’s head at the Court Gate.
A loud shout burst from the spectators. Shallow wept tears of rapture—mingled with envy.
“Oh, if I could but do it! If I could but have such a thing to talk of! If I could but once say I had broken a head like that!” he exclaimed frantically.
“A word with you, sir,” said a rough, shockheaded fellow, drawing him aside confidentially.
A flourish of trumpets announced the approach of the princes. Jack’s companions flocked round him, overwhelming him with congratulations and apologies. Jack affected to treat the whole matter lightly; the knowledge that he had more than recovered his lost ground enabled him to still the beatings of his heart. He had fought with wondrous coolness and apparent enjoyment, but had, in reality, suffered all the agonies which a keen intellect must always experience in an encounter with serious physical danger.
Skogan was carried away to be plastered. It is to be hoped his poem would keep till the next birthday.
By the time Sir Thomas Mowbray came out with the rest of the courtiers, he found his page fully equipped, and ready to accompany him to the tiltyard in Smithfield.
When they reached the ground, as Jack was struggling with a crowd of men at arms to get through the narrow gateway, he felt his sleeve pulled from behind, and an eager voice cried—
“Jack, Jack! don’t go in yet. Look here; I’ve fought too!”