During that time the little Cockney valet, who has the heart of a man in him, literally burst his way forward, and stood in front of his master in boxing attitude, calling out: "'Ere, come on, the 'ole lot of ye! 'E ain't done no 'arm.

He honly kissed the gal, as any man would.

If ye want to cut off somebody's 'ed, cut off mine.

I ain't afride!" There was such genuine pluck in this, and it formed so fine a contrast to the other's craven attitude (forgive me, Your Honour; but you want the truth!), that I was glad he was an Englishman, too.

The mountaineers recognized his spirit, and saluted with their handjars, even Michael amongst the number.
Half turning his head, the little man said in a fierce whisper: "Buck up, guv'nor! Get up, or they'll slice ye! 'Ere's Mr.Rooke; 'e'll see ye through it." By this time the men were amenable to reason, and when I reminded them that Mr.Melton was Your Honour's cousin, they put aside their handjars and went about their work.