I went and stood by the long man for company.  And after a little he became much more friendly.

“Why do you stand with your match alight?” I asked of him after we had been a while silent.

“Why, to keep a border knife out of Jorian’s back, of course, while he is turning the fry in the pan,” said he, as simply as if he had said that ’twas a fine night without, or that the moon was full.

“I wish I could help,” I sighed, a little wistfully, for I wished him to think well of me.

“What!” he exclaimed—­“with the frying-pan?  Well, there is the basting ladle!” he retorted, and laughed in his old manner.

I own that, being yet little more than a lad, the tears stood in my eyes to be so flouted and made nothing of.

“I will show you perhaps sooner than you think that I am neither a coward nor a babe!” I said, in high dudgeon.

And so went and stood by myself over against the farther door of the three, which led from the outer hall to the apartments in which I could hear the murmur of women’s voices.  And it was lucky that I did so.  For even as I reached the door a sharp cry of terror came from within, and there at the inner portal I caught sight of a narrow, foxy, peering visage, and a lean, writhing figure, prone like a worm on its belly.  The rascal had been crawling towards Helene’s room, for what purpose I know not.  Nor did I stop to inquire, for, being stung by the taunt of the man-at-arms, I was on Foxface in a moment, stamping upon him with my iron-shod feet, and then lifting him unceremoniously up by the slackness of his back covertures, I turned him over and over like a wheel, tumbling him out of the doorway into the outer hall with an astonishing clatter, shedding knives and daggers as he went.

It was certainly a pity for the fellow that Boris had taunted me so lately.  But the abusing of him gave me great comfort.  And as he whirled past the group at the fire, Jorian caught him handily in the round of his back with a convenient spit, also without asking any questions, whereat the fellow went out at the wide front door by which we had first entered, revolving in a cloud of dust.  And where he went after that I have no idea.  To the devil, for all I care!

But Boris, standing quietly by his own door, was evidently somewhat impressed by my good luck.  For soon after this he came over to me.  I thought he might be about to apologize for his rudeness.  And so perhaps he did, but it was in his own way.

“Did you spoil your dagger on him?” he said, anxiously, for the first time speaking to me as a man speaks to his equal.

“No,” said I, “but I stubbed my toe most confoundedly, jarring it upon the rascal’s backbone as he went through the door.”

“Ah!” he replied, thoughtfully, nodding his head, “that was more fitting for such as he.  But you may get a chance at him with the dagger yet or the night be over.”