“Sir,” cried I, the hot, angry blood burning in my cheeks, as I returned roughly enough the push I had received from one of those who blocked the way, “sir, your manners stand in much need of mending—or ending.”
And my sword—a flash of living fire in the westering sun—was out in a twinkling.
I knew the fellow who had insulted me. It was Michael Martin, a rich merchant and a person of authority in the town, notwithstanding his comparative youth—he was not much older than myself—to whom I spoke. He had deliberately jostled against me as I made to pass him, and I was never blind to a hint of this kind.
His action, coupled with the words I had heard, had quickly got me out of the happy frame of mind with which I had quitted the Mayor’s mansion, and my thoughts were immediately of my mistresses’ danger. His unmannerly act meant more than hostility to me.
“Draw!” shouted I furiously, and his sword flashed out at me. Martin was neither a coward nor a poor swordsman, and my hands were full with this business in another instant.
“Manners,” quoth he, as our blades rang together as steel met steel; “manners! Manners, forsooth! Who are you to teach a gentleman of Galway manners? You—the scum of the sea!”
And so he raved, keeping his eyes warily fixed on mine the while.
These fresh insults maddened me like the stirring of venom from the poisonous fangs of a wolf, and a sudden fierce storm of passionate anger such as I had never before felt swept over me, as I cried to him across the darting swords, “We shall see, we shall see!”
Meanwhile my comrades ranged themselves beside me with their weapons unsheathed, and several of those who had been talking with Martin were not slow to follow their example, but it was rather, as it happened, with a view to forming a ring round my opponent and myself, so that we had the fighting to ourselves.
“A brawl, a brawl!” someone cried, and there was the sound of the shutting of windows and the closing of doors.