“Dare to repeat that insinuation, base Titan,” cried Xit, furiously, and drawing his sword, “and I will be thy death. I am as illustriously descended as thyself, and on both sides too, whereas thy mother was a frowzy fish-wife. Know that I am the son of Sir Thomas More.”
“Sir Thomas More!” echoed both giants, laughing more immoderately than ever. “What has put that notion into thy addle pate?”
“My better genius,” replied Xit, “and unless you can show me who was my father, I shall claim descent from him.”
“You will only expose yourself to ridicule,” returned Og, patting the mannikin’s shock head—a familiarity which he resented,—“and though I and my brethren laugh at you, and make a jest of you, we do not desire others to do so.”
“Once graced by knighthood, no man, be he of my stature or of yours, my overgrown master, shall make a jest of me with impunity,” replied Xit, proudly. “But since you think I am not the son of Sir Thomas More, from whom can I safely claim descent?”
“I would willingly assist you to a father,” replied Og, smothering a laugh, “but on my faith, I can think of none more probable than Hairun’s pet monkey, or perhaps old Max.”
“Anger me not,” shrieked Xit, in extremity of fury, “or you will rue it. What has become of the blanket in which I was wrapped?”
“The blanket!” exclaimed Og, “why, it was a strip scarcely bigger than my hand.”
“Is it lost?” demanded Xit, eagerly.
“I fear so,” replied Og. “Stay! now I recollect, I patched an old pair of hose with it.”