"
"Or, Pertinax, a pasty plump and deep--"
"Ha--pasty, by the Mass!" the Knight did cry.
"Or pickled tongue of neat, Sir Knight, or sheep--"
"Oh, for a horse! For wings wherewith to fly--"
"Or breast of swan--"
"Stay! nay, my lord, ha' mercy!" groaned Sir Pertinax, wiping moist brow.
"Picture no more toothsome dainties to my soul lest for desire I swoon and
languish by the way. I pray thee, let us haste, sire, so may we reach fair
Canalise ere sunset--yet stay! Hearken, messire, hear ye aught? Sure, afar
the tocsin soundeth?"
Now hearkening thus, they both became aware
Of distant bells that throbbed upon the air,
A faint, insistent sound that rose and fell,
A clamour vague that ominous did swell.
As thus they stood, well hidden from the road,
Footsteps they heard of feet that briskly strode.
And, through the leaves, a small man they espied,
Who came apace, a great sword by his side.
Large bascinet upon his head he bore,
'Neath which his face a scowl portentous wore;
While after toiled a stout but reverend friar
Who, scant of breath, profusely did perspire
And, thus perspiring, panted sad complaints
Thus--on the heat, his comrade and the Saints.
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