"O woe!" said a quavering voice. "Alack, and well-a-wey--"
My daughter GILLIAN demurreth:
GILL: No, father--that's not right at all.
You'd got to where you'd made him fall.
MYSELF: Well, then, Duke Joc'lyn, from his swoon awaking,
Found that his head confoundedly was aching;
Found he was bruised all down from top to toe--
GILL: A bruise, father, and he a duke? No, no!
Besides, you make
A frightful mistake--
A hero's head should never ache;
And, father, now, whoever knew
A hero beaten black and blue?
And then a bruise, it seems to me,
Is unromantic as can be.
He can't be bruised,
And shan't be bruised,
For, if you bruise him,
And ill-use him,
I'll refuse him--
No reader, I am sure, would choose
A hero any one can bruise.
So, father, if you want him read,
Don't bruise him, please--
MYSELF: Enough is said!
At this, Jocelyn sat up and wondered to find himself in a small chamber
dim-lit by a smoking cresset. On one side of him leaned an ancient woman,
a very hag-like dame
With long, sharp nose that downward curved as though
It fain would, beak-like, peck sharp chin below;
and upon his other side a young damsel of a wondrous dark beauty.
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