But it was of no use: walk he could not.
'I must wait till the morning,' he said, 'when some Christian waggoner may be passing.

Leave me in peace.' 'Nay, I am no such boor!' said Richard.

'Do you think you could ride ?' 'I could try.' 'I will bring you the best mare in Gwent.

But tell me your name, that I may know with whom I have the honour of a feud.' 'My name is Rowland Scudamore,' answered the youth.

'Yours I know already, and roundhead as you are, you have some smatch of honour in you.' With an air of condescension he held out his hand, which his adversary, oppressed with a sense of the injury he had done him, did not refuse.
Richard hurried home, and to the stable, where he saddled his mare.