“Forbear to grieve, fair knight, for this is not a defeat. We have brains, you and I; and for such as have brains there are no defeats, but only victories. Observe how we will turn this seeming disaster into an advertisement; an advertisement for our soap; and the biggest one, to draw, that was ever thought of; an advertisement that will transform that Mount Washington defeat into a Matterhorn victory. We will put on your bulletin-board, ‘Patronized by the elect.’ How does that strike you?”
“Verily, it is wonderly bethought!”
“Well, a body is bound to admit that for just a modest little one-line ad, it’s a corker.”
So the poor colporteur’s griefs vanished away. He was a brave fellow, and had done mighty feats of arms in his time. His chief celebrity rested upon the events of an excursion like this one of mine, which he had once made with a damsel named Maledisant, who was as handy with her tongue as was Sandy, though in a different way, for her tongue churned forth only railings and insult, whereas Sandy’s music was of a kindlier sort. I knew his story well, and so I knew how to interpret the compassion that was in his face when he bade me farewell. He supposed I was having a bitter hard time of it.
Sandy and I discussed his story, as we rode along, and she said that La Cote’s bad luck had begun with the very beginning of that trip; for the king’s fool had overthrown him on the first day, and in such cases it was customary for the girl to desert to the conqueror, but Maledisant didn’t do it; and also persisted afterward in sticking to him, after all his defeats. But, said I, suppose the victor should decline to accept his spoil? She said that that wouldn’t answer—he must. He couldn’t decline; it wouldn’t be regular. I made a note of that. If Sandy’s music got to be too burdensome, some time, I would let a knight defeat me, on the chance that she would desert to him.