Now, by a singular mischance the edge of the cup struck Sir Richard Pendragon on the forehead. It caused a wound so deep that his blood was mingled with the excellent wine. Together they flowed into his eyes and down his cheeks, and so profusely that they stained his doublet and dripped upon the floor. And the courageous girl, seeing my enemy’s discomfiture, for what with the liquor and what with his gore he was almost blind for the nonce, she darted across the room and picked up my sword. With a most valiant eagerness she pressed it into my hand. “Now, young señor gentleman, quick, quick!” she cried. “Have at him and make an end of him!” “Alack, you good soul,” said I, “this cannot be. I am the lawful prize of my adversary. God go with you, you kind thing.” I cast the sword to the ground. “Then oh, young master, you are a very fool.” Tears sprang to the eyes of the honest girl and quenched her fiery glances. However, so dauntless was the creature in my cause that she picked up my sword again, and crying, “I myself will do it, señor,” actually had at the English barbarian with the greatest imaginable valiancy. In the meantime the giant had been roaring at his own predicament in the most immoderate fashion. For, on feeling his head, and discovering that the stream that trickled into his eyes was a compound of elements so delectable, he cast forth his tongue at it in a highly whimsical manner, and drew as much into his mouth as he could obtain. “I have my errors,” he cried, rocking with mirth; “but if a wanton disregard of God’s honest sherris be there among, when he dies may this ruby-coloured one be called to the land of the eternal drought. Jesu! what a body this Pendragon azure gives it. ’Tis choicer than Tokay out of the skull of a Mohammedan. When the hour comes to invest me in my shell, I will get me a tun of sherris and sever a main artery, and I will perish by mine own suction.” He had scarcely concluded these comments when the brave little maid had at him with my sword. Expecting no such demonstration on the part of one not much taller than his leg, it needed all his adroitness of foot, which for one of his stature was indeed surprising, to save the steel from his ribs. And so set was the creature on making an end of him that the force with which she dashed at his huge form, and yet missed it, carried her completely beyond her balance. With another of his mighty roars, the English giant seized her by the nape with his right hand, and held her up in the air by the scruff, so curiously as if she had been a fierce little cat that had flown at him. “Why, thou small spitfire,” he said, “thou art even too slight to be cracked under mine heel. Thou pretty devil, I will buss thee.” “I will bite off the end of your nose, you bloody-minded villain,” cried the little wench, struggling frantically in his gripe. “Nay, why this enmity, pretty titmouse,” said the giant, “seeing that I have a mind to fondle thee for thy valour?”