"I am Sir Peveril," said the knight,
"If you my name would learn,
And I will for fair Katharine fight,
A lady's love, and a lady's right,
And a lady's choice to earn."
The gauntlet thrown upon the ground,
Sir Bullstrode laughed with joy:
"Short work," said he, "I'll make of thee--
Methinks a beardless boy."
Nor sooner said than in he sprang
And aimed a mortal blow,
The crenel upon the buckler rang,
And having achieved an echoing clang,
It made no more ado.
The stranger knight wheeled quick as light,
And charging with gratitude,
Gave him good thank on his left flank,
And lo! a stream of blood!
Shall he this knight, so dread in fight,
Cede to this beardless foe,
And feel in his pain, returned again,
That vaunt of his so empty and vain,
That vaunt of the carrion crow?
Stung by the wound, not less by shame,
He gathered all his force,
And sprang again, with desperate aim,
His enemy to unhorse;
But he who watched the pointed lance
A dexterous movement made,
And saw his foe, as he missed the blow,
Rock in his selle both to and fro,
And vault o'er his horse's head.
Sore fainting from the loss of blood,
He lay upon the ground,
Nor e'er a leech within his reach
Can stop that fatal wound.
And there with many an honour full,
That brave and doughty knight,
Sir Bullstrode, who once strode the bull,
And killed (himself one) many a fool,
Has closed his eyes in night.
Pages:
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62