"My mother always declared that my father was of that nation," answered the man, readily enough.
"To conclude," continued Wat, who was impatient of further conference with such rank knaves, "what might be your distinguished rank in the service of my Lord of Barra?"
"I am his camp butcher," said the man, laying his hand on a long, keen knife which swung at his belt on the opposite side from his sword.
"And these other two gentlemen, your honorable companions?" queried Wat, indicating them over his shoulder with contemptuous thumb.
The hulking fellow of the scar made a gesture with his shoulders, which said as plain as might be, "They are of age; ask themselves."
But the nearer of the two did not wait to be asked. He was a hairless, flaccid-faced rogue of a pasty gray complexion, and even uglier than the plum-colored Bull, with a certain intact and virgin hideousness of his own.
"I, for my part, am called Haxo's Calf, and I am not ashamed of the name!" he said.
And, thinking this an excellent jest, he showed a row of teeth like those of a hungry dog when he snatches a bone from a comrade not his equal in the fray.
"And, I doubt not, a fit calf of such a sire," quoth Lochinvar, looking from one to the other.
"He is my apprentice, not my son—praise to the Virgin and all the saints!" said Haxo, looking at the Calf quite as scornfully as Wat himself.