The trembling girl lit a candle, and as it shone upon her face Trenchon gave a deep sigh of happiness and relief. No girl in the village could be more fair.
The blacksmith stood, his fingers clenched with rage; but he looked with hesitation and respect upon the burly form of the prizefighter. Yet the old man did not flinch.
“Throw aside thy stick,” he cried, “or wait until I can get me another.”
Trenchon flung his stick into the corner.
“Oh! oh!” cried the girl, clasping her hands. “You must not fight.” But she appealed to her husband and not to her father, which caused a glow of satisfaction to rise from the heart of the young man.
“Get thee out of this house,” cried her father, fiercely, turning upon her.
“Talk not thus to my wife,” said Trenchon, advancing upon him.
“Thy wife?” cried the blacksmith, in amaze.
“My wife,” repeated the young man with emphasis. “They tell me, blacksmith, that thou art strong. That thou art brutal I know, but thy strength I doubt. Come to me and test it.”
The old man sprang upon him, and the Bruiser caught him by the elbows and held him helpless as a child. He pressed him up against the wall, pushed his wrists together, and clasped them both in his one gigantic hand. Then, placing the other on the blacksmith’s shoulder, he put his weight upon him, and the blacksmith, cursing but helpless, sank upon his knees.