For a long,
breathless moment Jessamy stood thus above the great, huddled form of
his insensible antagonist, and for that moment no one moved, it
seemed, and never a word spoken; then Jessamy sighed, shook his head,
clasped his hands and looking up to heaven, prayed thus, none daring
to interrupt:
"Lord, seeing force and conflict was needful, let it not be in vain
but forgive, I beseech Thee, my unholy joy therein. As Thy servant's
fist smote this Thy son's flesh, so may Thy Truth smite his heart and
he come to Thy grace thereby!"
This supplication ended, he turned to a pale-faced, gaping individual
who stood near by, a slopping tankard grasped in nerveless hand.
"Friend," says Jessamy, "I'll trouble you for your ale." The man gave
it eagerly:
"Lord, sir," said he, grinning ingratiatingly, "you did Tom up in
proper style and no mistake." Stern-faced, Jessamy turned, and,
stooping above his prostrate and still unconscious antagonist, dashed
the ale into his bloody face, whereupon Tom groaned and stirred
feebly.
"Ale be good stuff--sometimes, took externally, which is a Latin word
meaning not in the stomach!" said Jessamy, and setting an arm beneath
Tom's battered head, lifted him to a sitting posture. "How are ye now,
Tom?" he enquired.
"Bad, damned bad!" groaned Tom. "To hit a man--wi' a brick--ain't the
Christian way to fight; it ain't Johnny Bull."
"Here's your brick, friend Tom," said Jessamy, showing his brawny
fist.
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