"Here come I, that St. George, That worthy champion bold, And with my sword and spear I won three crowns of gold. I fought the dragon old And brought him to the slaughter, By that I gained fair Sabra, The king of Egypt's daughter." The Turkish knight drew his sword and with a warlike pass at St. George, hurled his defiance: "St. George, I pray, be not too bold, If thy blood is hot I'll soon make un cold." The squire smiles, for there is a strong Cornish accent in the Turk's tone, notwithstanding his efforts to conceal it. But now St. George also has drawn his sword and with the threat, "Thou, Turkish Knight, I pray, forbear, I'll make thee dread my sword and spear," the contest begins. The servants have opened the door leading to the kitchen department and now stand crowding in the entrance. Little ones that had been taken to bed by their nurses were brought down to see the fun. Fair play and a clear field, the squire had said, and so the centre of the great room was theirs. And how they did fight! Surely no earthly battle was like it. In no battle was so much blood shed and so many hard blows delivered, at least so thought the Turk in reference to the latter, for he was battered from head to foot with side blows and over cuts, jabs, and slashes, until he ardently wished for the time to come when he must fall down dead. The squire and the others applauded when a good blow was given or one neatly parried. The Turk at length steadily gave way, to the delight of the little ones among the spectators. One little maid in her exuberance of joy danced up and down clapping her hands and saying, "The old Turk is going to be whipped, and I'm glad." At length, under a shower of blows, the Turk fell to the ground amid the plaudits of the onlookers. St. George bends over him to see the extent of his wounds, and the Turk whispers: "Ande, I guess I 'ad better stay killed this time." But St. George is inexorable. Standing erect he speaks: "He lives, he breathes, he speaks, Now in the name of Elicompane Let the man rise and fight again." The Turk arises on one knee and continues the conflict, but not for long, as he is again stricken down and becomes at once a suppliant. "Oh, pardon me, St. George, Pardon me I crave, Pardon me this once, And I will be thy slave." Bold St. George had no idea of mercy toward the Turk, and so he spurs him once more to the conflict. "I'll never pardon a Turkish Knight, Therefore arise and try thy might." Again the contest raged, the Turk, seeking to save himself as much as possible from the onslaughts of St. George, fights with a good bit of desperate valour, but down he goes again. St. George shakes his head as if it were all over and then cries: "Is there a doctor to be found To cure a deep and deadly wound?"