One only
lingered, the black-browed Baron Brocas, who, making a gambade
which brought him within arm-sweep of the serf, slashed him
across the face with his riding-whip. "Doff, dog, doff," he
hissed, "when a monarch deigns to lower his eyes to such as
you!"--then spurred through the underwood and was gone, with a
gleam of steel shoes and flutter of dead leaves.
The villein took the cruel blow without wince or cry, as one to
whom stripes are a birthright and an inheritance. His eyes
flashed, however, and he shook his bony hand with a fierce wild
gesture after the retreating figure.
"Black hound of Gascony," he muttered, "evil the day that you and
those like you set foot in free England! I know thy kennel of
Rochecourt. The night will come when I may do to thee and thine
what you and your class have wrought upon mine and me. May God
smite me if I fail to smite thee, thou French robber, with thy
wife and thy child and all that is under thy castle roof!"
"Forbear!" cried Alleyne. "Mix not God's name with these
unhallowed threats! And yet it was a coward's blow, and one to
stir the blood and loose the tongue of the most peaceful.
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