It was well judged and well swung, but point would have been wiser
than edge against that supple body and those active feet. Quick
as a flash, Nigel had sprung inside the sweep of the blade, taking
a flesh wound on his left forearm, as he pressed it under the
hilt. The next instant the cripple was on the ground and Nigel's
dagger was at his throat.
"You dog!" he whispered. "I have you at my mercy! Quick ere I
strike, and for the last time! Will you marry or no?"
The crash of the fall and the sharp point upon his throat had
cowed the man's spirit. He looked up with a white face and the
sweat gleamed upon his forehead. There was terror in his eyes.
"Nay, take your knife from me!" he cried. "I cannot die like a
calf in the shambles."
"Will you marry?"
"Yes, yes, I will wed her! After all she is a good wench and I
might do worse. Let me up! I tell you I will marry her! What
more would you have?"
Nigel stood above him with his foot upon his misshapen body. He
had picked up his sword, and the point rested upon the cripple's
breast.
"Nay, you will bide where you are! If you are to live--and my
conscience cries loud against it--at least your wedding will be
such as your sins have deserved. Lie there, like the crushed worm
that you are!" Then he raised his voice. "Father Athanasius!" he
cried. "What ho! Father Athanasius!"
The old priest ran to the cry, and so did the Lady Mary.
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