Part 1 (1/2)
The Tavern Knight
by Rafael Sabatini
CHAPTER I ON THE MARCH
He whoh--such a laugh as ht fall from the lips of Satan in a sardonic ht shed by two tallow candles, whose sconces were two empty bottles, and conte hite face and quivering lip in a corner of the ain, and in a hoarse voice, sorely suggestive of the bottle, he broke into song He lay back in his chair, his long, spare legs outstretched, his spurs jingling to the lilt of his ditty whose burden ran:
On the lip so red of the wench that's sped His passionate kiss burns, still-O!
For 'tis April time, and of love and wine Youth's way is to take its fill-O!
Down, down, derry-do!
So his cup he drains and he shakes his reins, And rides his rake-helly way-O!
She eet to woo and most comely, too, But that was all yesterday-O!
Down, down, derry-do!
The lad started forith so akin to a shi+ver
”Have done,” he cried, in a voice of loathing, ”or, if croak you must, choose a ditty less foul!”
”Eh?” The ruffler shook back the matted hair from his lean, harsh face, and a pair of eyes that of a sudden seelared at his companion; then the lids drooped until those eyes becahed
”Gad's life, Master Stewart, you have a terey hairs! What is't to you what ditty my fancy seizes on?
'Swounds, man, for three weary months have I curbedthe Lord; for threezeal and Godliness; and now that at last I have shaken the dust of your beggarly Scotland fro fro done, I sing to keepsad in the contemplation of its emptiness!”
There was scorn unutterable on the lad's face as he turned aside
”When I joined Middleton's horse and accepted service under you, I held you to be at least a gentleerous light gleaain from his companion's eye Then, as before, the lids drooped, and, as before, he laughed
”Gentleood! And what entleit like a crow in the gutter? Gadswounds, boy, when I was your age, and George Villiers lived--”
”Oh, have done!” broke in the youth impetuously ”Suffer , and your o your ways, sir; you'd be sorry company for a dead man--the sorriest ever my evil star led me into The door is yonder, and should you chance to break your saintly neck on the stairs, it is like to be well for both of us”
And with that Sir Crispin Galliard lay back in his chair once
But, heigh-o! she cried, at the Christmas-tide, That dead she would rather be-O!
Pale and wan she crept out of sight, and wept
'Tis a sorry--
A loud knock that echoed oh the mean chamber, fell in that instant upon the door And with it ca cry of--