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Doyle, Arthur Conan, Sir, 1859-1930

"Sir Nigel"

Is it for me to
strike one who is no better than a cripple? For my manhood I
could not do such a deed, and I pray you, dear lady, that you will
set me some other task."
Her eyes flashed at him in contempt. "And you are a man-at-arms!"
she cried, laughing in bitter scorn. "You are afraid of a little
man who can scarce walk. Yes, yes, say what you will, I shall
ever believe that you have heard of his skill at fence and of his
great spirit, and that your heart has failed you! You are right,
Nigel. He is indeed a perilous man. Had you done what I asked he
would have slain you, and so you have shown your wisdom."
Nigel flushed and winced under the words, but he said no more, for
his mind was fighting hard within him, striving to keep that high
image of woman which seemed for a moment to totter on the edge of
a fall. Together in silence, side by side, the little man and the
stately woman, the yellow charger and the white jennet, passed up
the sandy winding track with the gorse and the bracken head-high
on either side. Soon a path branched off through a gateway marked
with the boar-heads of the Buttesthorns, and there was the low
widespread house heavily timbered, loud with the barking of dogs.
The ruddy Knight limped forth with outstretched hand and roaring
voice--
"What how, Nigel! Good welcome and all hail! I had thought that
you had given over poor friends like us, now that the King had
made so much of you.


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