“Loose my bridle or ’twill be the worse for ye. D’ye know who I am?” “Judging by your right eye, sir, its rainbow colouring, I opine you must be Mr. James Sturton——” “Damn your insolence—leggo my bridle!” But instead of complying, Sir John gave a sudden twist to the bit, whereupon the plump and somnolent steed waked to sudden action, insomuch that Mr. Sturton was nearly unseated and his hat tumbled off; whereupon Sir John deftly skewered it upon the end of his stick and tossed it over the hedge; and old Penelope, watching its brief flight, uttered a single screech of laughter and was immediately silent again. Mr. Sturton, having quieted his horse, raised his stick and struck viciously, but Sir John, deftly parrying the blow, answered it with a thrust, a lightning riposte that took his aggressor full upon fleshy chin. Mr. Sturton dropped his stick, clapped hand to chin and, seeing his own blood, spurred madly upon Sir John, who, in escaping the lashing hoofs, tripped and fell into the ditch. “Let that learn ye!” cried Mr. Sturton, exultantly shaking his fist. “A ditch is the proper place for you, my lad.... I only hope as you’ve broke a bone.” “Thank you,” answered Sir John, sitting up, and groping for his hat, “I find myself very well, for: Though in posture unheroic You behold me still a stoic. And, further, here’s a truth, sir, which is: There are places worse than ditches! Indeed, Mr. Sturton,” he added, leaning back in the ditch and folding his arms, “’tis in my mind that you may find yourself yearning passionately for a good, dry ditch one o’ these days.” “Bah!” cried the other contemptuously. “If ye can crawl—crawl and bring me my hat.” “The heavens,” answered Sir John, pointing thither with graceful flourish, “the heavens shall fall first, sir.” “Ha, now—look’ee! You’ll bring me my hat, young man, or I’ll march you and yon vile old beldam into Dering and ha’ ye clapped into the stocks together for assault on the highway! D’ye hear?” “Sir,” answered Sir John, “a fiddlestick!” Uttering an angry exclamation, Mr. Sturton whipped a pistol from his holster, but as he did so, old Penelope whirled her long staff which, missing him by a fraction, took effect upon his horse, whereupon this much-enduring animal promptly bolted and galloped furiously away with Mr. Sturton in a cloud of dust. “Lord ha’ mercy!” gasped old Penelope as the galloping hoof-beats blurred and died away. “Lord, what ’ave I done?” “Removed an offence by a mere flourish o’ your magic wand, like the fairy godmother you are!” answered Sir John. “Mistress Penelope, accept my thanks—I salute you!” And, standing up in the ditch, he bowed gravely.