“It is the king who is crazed, not me!” cried Mark. “He would sacrifice his rightful consort to his unlawful passion; and you, base hirelings, support the tyrant in his wrongful conduct!”
“Saints protect us!” exclaimed Bryan. “Why, this is flat treason. Mark, I can no longer uphold you.”
“Not if you do not desire to share his prison, mine host,” cried the Duke of Shoreditch. “You have all heard him call the king a tyrant. Seize him, my masters!”
“Let them lay hands upon me if they dare!” cried the butcher resolutely. “I have felled an ox with a blow of my fist before this, and I promise you I will show them no better treatment.”
Awed by Mark's determined manner, the bystanders kept aloof.
“I command you, in the king's name, to seize him!” roared Shoreditch. “If he offers resistance he will assuredly be hanged.”
“No one shall touch me!” cried Mark fiercely.
“That remains to be seen,” said the foremost of the Earl of Surrey's attendants. “Yield, fellow!”
“Never!” replied Mark; “and I warn you to keep off.”
The attendant, however, advanced; but before he could lay hands on the butcher he received a blow from his ox-like fist that sent him reeling backwards for several paces, and finally stretched him at full length upon the ground. His companions drew their swords, and would have instantly fallen upon the sturdy offender, if Morgan Fenwolf, who, with the Earl of Surrey, was standing among the spectators, had not rushed forward, and, closing with Mark before the latter could strike a blow, grappled with him, and held him fast till he was secured, and his arms tied behind him.