“My Lords,” he said, “I have invited you hither that you may have the privilege of doing honour to a brave man. I ask you to salute the blacksmith Arras, who, when his country was in danger, crushed the invaders as effectually as ever his right arm, wielding sledge, crushed hot iron.”
A red flush of confusion overspread the face of the blacksmith, but loud murmurs broke out among the nobility, and none stepped forward to salute him. One, indeed, stepped forward, but it was to appeal to the Emperor.
“Your Majesty,” exclaimed Count Bertrich, “this is an unwarranted breach of our privileges. It is not meet that we, holding noble names, should be asked to consort with an untitled blacksmith. I appeal to your Majesty against the Archbishop under the feudal law.”
All eyes turned upon the Emperor, who, after a pause, said:
“Count Bertrich is right, and I sustain his appeal.”
An expression of triumph came into the red bibulous face of Count Bertrich, and the nobles shouted joyously:
“The Emperor, the Emperor!”
The Archbishop, however, seemed in no way non-plussed by his defeat, but, addressing the armourer, said:
“Advance, blacksmith, and do homage to your Emperor and mine.”
When the blacksmith knelt before the throne, the Emperor, taking his jewelled sword from his side, smote the kneeling man lightly on his broad shoulders, saying: