"I swear I will.

But of your charity, good sir, I beseech you remove your sword.
Your hand might slip, sir," he whined, a wild terror in his eyes.
Where now was the deep bass of his whilom accents?
Where now the grotesque majesty of his bearing, and the impressive gestures that erstwhile had accompanied his words of denunciation?
"Your hand might slip, sir," he whined again.
"It might--and, by Gad, it shall if I hear more from you.

So that you are discreet and obedient, have no fear of my hand." Then, still keeping his eye upon the fellow: "Kenneth," he said, "attend to the crop-ear yonder, he will be recovering.

Truss him with the bedclothes, and gag him with his scarf.

See to it, Kenneth, and do it well, but leave his nostrils free that he may breathe." Kenneth carried out Galliard's orders swiftly and effectively, what time Crispin remained standing over the recumbent minister.