Now, hearing
this fierce and well-known battle shout, Duke Jocelyn turned and, beholding
the Knight, shook bloody head in warning and slowly closed one bright, blue
eye; and so, while Sir Pertinax stood rigid and dumb, was dragged away and
lost in the fierce, jostling throng.
My daughter GILLIAN propoundeth:
GILL: Father, when you began this Geste, I thought
It was a poem of a sort.
MYSELF: A sort, Miss Pert! A sort, indeed?
GILL: Of course--the sort folks love to read.
But in the last part we have heard
Of poetry there's scarce a word.
MYSELF: My dear, if you the early Geste-books read,
You'll find that, oft as not, indeed,
The wearied Gestours, when by rhyming stumped,
Into plain prose quite often jumped.
GILL: But, father, dear, the last part seems to me
All prose--as prosy as can be--
MYSELF: Ha, prosy, miss! How, do you then suggest
Our Geste for you lacks interest?
GILL: Not for a moment, father, though
Sir Pertinax was much too slow.
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