“Nay, Adam, this is absolute madness, for whilst thou art composing thy ballad we shall both be brent. Haste thee, old man. Hark! there was the crash of falling ruins.”
“One stanza more, I entreat thee, Sir Knight; my brain is hot with my subject.
To snatch his love from threatening harm,
He clasped her in his vigorous arm.”
“Nay, then,” said Hepborne, “I must of needscost enclasp thee in mine, or we shall both perish;” and snatching up, with one hand, the minstrel’s drapery that lay beside him, he lifted old Adam, harp and all, high in his other arm, and carried him down the stair on his shoulder; whilst the bard, entirely occupied with his subject, was hardly conscious of being removed from his position, and went on chatting and strumming—
“He quick uprose, in wild alarm,
To snatch his love from threatening harm;
He clasped her in his vigorous arm,
And rushed——
Holy St. Cuthbert, I’m choked! I’m—pugh!—ooh!”