. .
"Now, by St. Barbacue of Limoges," said Bertrand de Gourdon, "the
butcher will never strike down yonder lambling! Hold thy hand, Sir King,
or, by St. Barbacue--"
Swift as thought the veteran archer raised his arblast to his shoulder,
the whizzing bolt fled from the ringing string, and the next moment
crashed quivering into the corselet of Plantagenet.
'Twas a luckless shot, Bertrand of Gourdon! Maddened by the pain of the
wound, the brute nature of Richard was aroused: his fiendish appetite
for blood rose to madness, and grinding his teeth, and with a curse too
horrible to mention, the flashing axe of the royal butcher fell down
on the blond ringlets of the child, and the children of Chalus were no
more! . . .
I just throw this off by way of description, and to show what MIGHT be
done if I chose to indulge in this style of composition; but as in the
battles which are described by the kindly chronicler, of one of whose
works this present masterpiece is professedly a continuation, everything
passes off agreeably--the people are slain, but without any unpleasant
sensation to the reader; nay, some of the most savage and blood-stained
characters of history, such is the indomitable good-humor of the great
novelist, become amiable, jovial companions, for whom one has a hearty
sympathy--so, if you please, we will have this fighting business at
Chalus, and the garrison and honest Bertrand of Gourdon, disposed of;
the former, according to the usage of the good old times, having been
hung up or murdered to a man, and the latter killed in the manner
described by the late Dr.
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