"’Tis a pity, Ralph, thou wast not there. ’Twas rare sport. Sir Richard Cornwall caught the Breton--the Sire de Kervignac, I mean--such a crack over the costard, I thought he had split his skull; but he’s a tough little wight, that he is. He no more minded it than if it had been a fleabite. Up he sprang, and waving his sword in the air, he brought it down like a flash of lightning right athwart Sir Richard’s sword, which he held to guard his head; he hit so hard that he cut it right in two, and then, swinging it round, he gave him a buffet on the side of his salade--for he wore a salade and not a burgonnet to-day--that, big man as Sir Richard Cornwall is, he staggered, so that I verily bethought me he was going to fall to the ground, and thou knowest how big a man Sir Richard is. And all the while Sir Richard had no sword to smite in turn; but he made a brave fight of it, for he rushed out round the barrier and seized the small Breton in his arms. Then we did shout; oh, how I shouted!" "Yea, and got rapped over the costard for doing it," said Maurice Woodville. "And serves you right, too; I felt quite grieved for thy want of manners." "Now that is a scurvy tale! Why, Maurice, thou knowest thou wast going to shout too, only thy mouth was so full of apple puff that thou hadst filched from Polly Bremeskete’s basket, which was open as thou chancest to pass, that thou couldst not make a sound saving a gruesome, pig-like snort. Come, that won’t do." "Marry will it. I did not make a braying jackass of myself, as thou didst." "No, because thou hadst already made a pig of thyself. But there! ’twill be long ere I finish my tale, if thou breakest in in this way." "Then cut it short, Dicky, or, better still, I’ll go on. Well, Ralph, the Marshal stopped them. He bade Sir Richard let go, and said both had done their devoir full well. But the best sport of the whole was when the Rusty Knight--I marvel who he is--tackled the other Breton--him whom thou toppledst over, thou knowest. There was a slashing and rashing! The sparks flew like the sparks at the armourer’s forge when Tom works the bellows, and at last the Rusty one smote the Breton so fierce a blow that he fell to the ground and never moved, and all men thought him dead. Then the people shouted, and--" "Yes! and thou hadst finished thine apple puff then, so thou shoutedst too," broke in Dicky, who was fuming and fidgetting at the story being taken out of his mouth. "Thou wert told to be still, and not make a noise, Dicky. We shall have old Mother Trenchard after us an thou art not quiet. Well, as I was saying, the Rusty Knight having no--" "You weren’t saying it!" broke in Dicky again. "You were saying--" "What an egg thou art, Dicky! Wilt thou be still, and let me finish?" "Why, ’twas I who began, and I ought to finish." But here Lady Trenchard was attracted by the rising voices, and coming in, bade both the boys begone.