Good day, fair sir, I give you welcome, knowing whence you come. SQUIRE. My Lady Alice de la Barde, I come From Oliver Clisson, knight and mighty lord, Bringing you tidings: I make bold to hope You will not count me villain, even if They wring your heart, nor hold me still in hate; For I am but a mouthpiece after all, A mouthpiece, too, of one who wishes well To you and your's. ALICE. Can you talk faster, sir, Get over all this quicker? fix your eyes On mine, I pray you, and whate'er you see, Still go on talking fast, unless I fall, Or bid you stop. SQUIRE. I pray your pardon then, And, looking in your eyes, fair lady, say I am unhappy that your knight is dead. Take heart, and listen! let me tell you all. We were five thousand goodly men-at-arms, And scant five hundred had he in that hold: His rotten sand-stone walls were wet with rain, And fell in lumps wherever a stone hit; Yet for three days about the barrier there The deadly glaives were gather'd, laid across, And push'd and pull'd; the fourth our engines came; But still amid the crash of falling walls, And roar of lombards, rattle of hard bolts, The steady bow-strings flash'd, and still stream'd out St. George's banner, and the seven swords, And still they cried: St. George Guienne! until Their walls were flat as Jericho's of old, And our rush came, and cut them from the keep. ALICE. Stop, sir, and tell me if you slew him then, And where he died, if you can really mean That Peter Harpdon, the good knight, is dead? SQUIRE. Fair lady, in the base-court: ALICE. What base-court? What do you talk of? Nay, go on, go on; 'Twas only something gone within my head: Do you not know, one turns one's head round quick, And something cracks there with sore pain? go on, And still look at my eyes. SQUIRE. Almost alone, There in the base-court fought he with his sword, Using his left hand much, more than the wont Of most knights now-a-days; our men gave back, For wheresoever he hit a downright blow, Some one fell bleeding, for no plate could hold Against the sway of body and great arm; Till he grew tired, and some man (no! not I, I swear not I, fair lady, as I live!) Thrust at him with a glaive between the knees, And threw him; down he fell, sword undermost; Many fell on him, crying out their cries, Tore his sword from him, tore his helm off, and: ALICE.