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He comes from Hordle, and
this is his mother who hath come forth to welcome him."
"You rammucky lurden," she was howling, with a blow between each
catch of her breath, "you shammocking, yaping, over-long
good-for-nought. I will teach thee! I will baste thee! Aye, by my
faith!"
"Whist, mother," said John, looking back at her from the tail of
his eye, "I go to France as an archer to give blows and to take
them."
"To France, quotha?" cried the old dame. "Bide here with me, and
I shall warrant you more blows than you are like to get in
France. If blows be what you seek, you need not go further than
Hordle."
"By my hilt! the good dame speaks truth," said Aylward. "It
seems to be the very home of them."
"What have you to say, you clean-shaved galley-beggar?" cried the
fiery dame, turning upon the archer. "Can I not speak with my
own son but you must let your tongue clack? A soldier, quotha,
and never a hair on his face. I have seen a better soldier with
pap for food and swaddling clothes for harness."
"Stand to it, Aylward," cried the archers, amid a fresh burst of
laughter.


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