He looked round and saw Master Robert Shallow in a high state of excitement, dragging a man by the collar, whose head was bound with a cloth streaming with blood.
“Look, Jack! mind, say you saw it. Sampson Stockfish his name is—he’s a fruiterer—I made him come here to show his broken head, or I threatened him with another.”
“Another head?”
“I pray you let me go, sir,” whined the wounded man; “you have hurt me sore enough for one day.”
“There! you hear him confess,” crowed the delighted Shallow.
“Out of the way, thou cobbler’s end,” said an authoritative voice. “What dost thou here among the Marshal’s men?”
And Prince John of Gaunt, striding through the gateway, laid his sheathed sword across Master Shallow’s head—reducing that warlike gentleman to the same condition as his blood-stained victim.
Master Shallow was led away howling, by the magnanimous Stockfish.
“Why what eelskin had’st thou got hold of there, Jack?” inquired the prince, looking after the discomfited champion.
“A Gloucestershire lamprey,” answered Jack. “Your highness would have done well to kill him, for truly he puts your title in danger.”