“How so?”
“Why your highness is no more Gaunt than he is. He fairly beats your name.”
When Master Sampson Stockfish and his conqueror were alone, the former very considerately took the bandage from his own forehead—previously wiping off the superfluous sheep’s blood—and bound it round his employer’s head, as having more need of it. He then requested to be paid, as he wanted to get home.
“True; a silver mark it was, I think,” said Shallow, who was not much hurt, handing the sum he named.
“A silver mark. Go hang! I’ll have forty.”
“Why it was thine own plan and bargain.”
“All’s one for that. I must have forty if I’m to keep counsel. If not, out comes the whole tale.”
Master Shallow compromised the matter for twenty marks on the present occasion,—and, by occasional subsequent fees, was enabled to bind Stockfish over to permanent silence. He boasted incessantly of his victory, which he eventually led himself to believe he had gained. Moreover, he would have considered any price cheap for an adventure which led to his making the acquaintance of that renowned prince, John of Gaunt, with whom he was wont to declare he had enjoyed a most interesting conversation upon the political and theological questions of the day.