At this all eyes turned to Peter, a lanky overgrown lad with a keen eye, a weak mouth, and the gift of words.png—-\C.M Pg325 png—-\C.M Pg325 png—-\C.M Pg325 png—-\C.M Pg325 png—-\C.M Pg325
"Speak up, Peter! Aye, listen to Peter—a good lad, Peter, as ever was!"
"Strong Jan the smith, take him up on your back so that he may see the better!"
"Hush, there! Stop that woman weeping. We cannot hear for her noise. She says he is like her son, does she? Well then, there will be time enough to weep for him afterwards."
"They are bringing up four horses from the Muscovite camp. The folk are getting as far off as they can from their heels," began Peter Altmaar, looking under his hand over the people's heads. "Half a score of men are at each brute's head. How they plunge! They will never stand still a moment. Ah, they are tethering them to the great posts of stone in the middle of the green square. Between, there is a table—no, a kind of square wooden stand like a priest's platform in Lent when he tells us our sins outside the church."
"The Princes are sitting their horses, watching. Bravo, that was well done. We came near to seeing the colour of the Muscovite brains that time. One of the wild horses spread his hoofs on either side of Prince Ivan's head!"
"God send him a better aim next time! Tell on, Peter! Aye, get on, good Peter!"
"The Princes have gone up into their balcony. They are laughing and talking as if it were a raree-show!"
"What of him, good Peter? How takes he all this?"