“By the soul of Saint Edward,” he said, “I will rescue her from yonder overproud knight, and he shall die by my hand!”

“Think what you do!” cried Wamba; “hasty hand catches frog for fish⁠—by my bauble, yonder is none of my Lady Rowena⁠—see but her long dark locks!⁠—Nay, an ye will not know black from white, ye may be leader, but I will be no follower⁠—no bones of mine shall be broken unless I know for whom.⁠—And you without armour too!⁠—Bethink you, silk bonnet never kept out steel blade.⁠—Nay, then, if wilful will to water, wilful must drench.⁠— Deus vobiscum , most doughty Athelstane!”⁠—he concluded, loosening the hold which he had hitherto kept upon the Saxon’s tunic.