"So be it!" said Jessamy. "Though I warned ye, and Lord knows I've been patient. But if ye will, ye will, so, being a man o' peace, I'll finish ye comfortable and quick--come on, my poor lad!" Tom came; with a rush that it seemed nothing might withstand, he hurled himself upon that quiet figure, mighty shoulders hunched, huge body quivering, eager for the fray; ensued a quick, brief trample of feet, the swift play of merciless arms, of mighty fists that smote the air, and then I saw the upward flash of Jessamy's left, heard the impact of a dreadful blow, and as Tom's head and shoulders jerked violently up, I saw the flash of Jessamy's right and the great body of his assailant, rocked and shaken by these two unerring, terrible blows, shrank horribly upon itself, rolled a limp and twisted heap in the dust, and lay still, with Jessamy poised above him, his kindly features transfigured with a wild and terrible joy. For a long, breathless moment Jessamy stood thus above the great, huddled form of his insensible antagonist, and for that moment no one moved, it seemed, and never a word spoken; then Jessamy sighed, shook his head, clasped his hands and looking up to heaven, prayed thus, none daring to interrupt: "Lord, seeing force and conflict was needful, let it not be in vain but forgive, I beseech Thee, my unholy joy therein. As Thy servant's fist smote this Thy son's flesh, so may Thy Truth smite his heart and he come to Thy grace thereby!" This supplication ended, he turned to a pale-faced, gaping individual who stood near by, a slopping tankard grasped in nerveless hand. "Friend," says Jessamy, "I'll trouble you for your ale." The man gave it eagerly: "Lord, sir," said he, grinning ingratiatingly, "you did Tom up in proper style and no mistake." Stern-faced, Jessamy turned, and, stooping above his prostrate and still unconscious antagonist, dashed the ale into his bloody face, whereupon Tom groaned and stirred feebly. "Ale be good stuff--sometimes, took externally, which is a Latin word meaning not in the stomach!" said Jessamy, and setting an arm beneath Tom's battered head, lifted him to a sitting posture. "How are ye now, Tom?" he enquired. "Bad, damned bad!" groaned Tom. "To hit a man--wi' a brick--ain't the Christian way to fight; it ain't Johnny Bull." "Here's your brick, friend Tom," said Jessamy, showing his brawny fist. "Why, then--who--who are ye?" stammered Tom. "I'm Jessamy Todd, preacher, man o' peace--and your friend, if you'll ha' me, Tom." "Jessamy--Jessamy Todd? You? O Lord, I'm bit! Jessamy Todd--why, then, no wonder." And now the crowd caught up the name, speeding it from lip to lip. "Jessamy Todd! It be Jessamy Todd!" "Can ye walk, friend Tom?" "I think so." "Then up wi' you and along o' me into the 'Ring o' Bells'; I'll soon make ye comfortable, an' then you an' me will pray together, shall us, friend?"