At that he looked at me in solemn perplexity, and I expected to see his hand back at his girdle. But, to my confusion, he only shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
This completed my humbling; for no man had ever disdained me thus before. I might easily have reached my sword, which lay at my feet, and run him through before he could face round; yet he did not even deign to notice me, and walked slowly to the fire, where he sat with his back to me.
I could stand it no longer, and crossed the room to face him.
“You have beaten me,” said I—and the words were hard to say—“take my sword, for, by heaven, I will never wear it again, and fare you well.”
The cloud on his face broke into sunlight as he sprang to his feet, and, taking my arm, said—
“No. Stay here and let us be friends. I am too poor to offer thee supper, but here’s my hand.”
I took his hand like one in a dream. I could not help it, strange as it seemed.
“Sir,” said I, “whoever you be, I strike hands on one condition only, that is, that you sup to-night with me. I’m a London ’prentice, but I know when I meet my match.”
What that had to do with his supping with me, I know not; but I was so flurried with my late defeat and my enemy’s sudden friendliness, that I scarcely knew what I said.
“If that be the price, I must even pay it,” said he, solemnly, “so long as we be friends.”