But he was a moment too late. Ere he could reach the wizard, the latter had recovered himself sufficiently to scramble to his legs; and just as the squire was about to lay his fangs upon him, he escaped with a sort of shuffling run, that grew as he proceeded into an awkward striding gait that might have done honour to a camelopard; the plates of his armour hanging [[317]]to his body by frail tags, clattering and jingling as he flew, and spinning off at a tangent from his person, as the thongs successively gave way. The esquire pursued him as fast as he could, but his armour hampered him so much that he had no chance in a race with one who was loosely attired, and who was every moment lessening his weight by getting rid of some part of his steel encumbrances.
“Halt, coward!” cried Sang, puffing and blowing after him. “Ha, by St. Baldrid, ’tis in vain to follow him. An he were the Spirit of the Cheviots himself, who may step thee from one hill-top to another, he could not exert more alacrity of escape. He devoureth whole roods of ground at a stride as he fleeth. By the mass, see him! he courses up yonder bank with his backpiece hanging down behind him, rattling like a canister at the tail of some mongrel hound. Body o’ me, how it got atween his legs; would that it had thrown him down. Ha! now it hath lost its hold of him—and now the red fiend may catch him for me, for there he goes into the forest.”
The squire returned slowly and sullenly to meet his page, who was by this time coming up. The huge dray horse of the Knight of Cheviot having regained his legs, was standing heaving his enormous sides like a stranded whale.
“’Tis a cruel bite, Archibald Lees,” said Mortimer Sang to the page; “’tis a cruel bite, I say, when a man thinketh he hath roused a lion, to find his game turn out but a stinking pole-cat after all. Get thee after the lurdon, and pick up the pieces of his armour, the which did drop from his scoundrel carcase as he fled.”
“Methought, as I chanced to see him casing, that he would turn out to be some such vermin,” replied the page, as he proceeded to obey the squire’s commands.
Sang sat himself down for a little time to recover his wind, comforting himself with the idea that he had at least won a trophy of armour that would be valuable from its very rarity.
“I shall have them hung up in mine own tower,” said he to himself. “As for the horse, he may fetch as much as may repay Sir Patrick for the advance he hath made for the arms I had of Andria Martellino. By mine honour, he hath a body and limbs that might pull a castle after them. He will sell right speedily to a wainman, ay, and that for a noble price too.”
A crowd of the populace now began to approach the place where he was sitting, clamouring as they came along. At their head came Rory Spears, with his fish-clip brandished over his shoulder, and followed by a party of the marshal’s men, bringing [[318]]along the Italian armourer in custody, whose face exhibited an expression of extreme dismay and trepidation.
“Ay, ay, we shall soon ken whether the rogue speaketh truth or no,” cried Spears indignantly. “He saith, if I mistake him not, that Squire Sang knoweth somewhat of the matter. We shall see what he may hae to say for himsel when he cometh before him. Bring him along here.”
“What turmoil is here, I beseech ye, my masters?” demanded Sang.