that
this thing happened so?"

But another shouted:

"In the name of the gods, Rag, get thee to sleep once more, thou
stupidest lout in Britain! It is a scurvy trick to waken thus at the
wrong time and trumpet thy nonsense in such fashion. Good youth canst
not skip that bit for peace's sake, and get on to the next part?"

Rag's voice blared into this one's speech.

"Nay, now I am awake, I'll not sleep again until I know if a lie hath
waked me. For if it be not the truth, it is a lie, and a lie shall have
short shrift with me!"

The men, stirred by the tale, took sides. A gale of conversation sprang
up. Some wished the story to go on; others would know by what means this
lanky youth could tell of what was to come to pass hereafter. They knew
not the word imagination. Consequently fierce arguments arose. The burly
cause of the uproar curled up and went quietly to sleep once more,
leaving his fellows to settle for themselves the questions he had
propounded. It is the way of his kind. High words fanned the spark of
their excitement. Two met with blows; one stumbled into the hot embers.
He cursed, and the light flashed on a drawn blade. Instantly the noise
redoubled. Mingled with it was the bleating of frightened sheep, the
oaths of drovers who strove to check incipient stampedes. Nicanor hugged
himself with joy. If but his father could be there to see! Melchior,
that wonderful great-sire of his, could not have so stirred men that
they were ready even for blood and violence. He, Nicanor, could;
wherefore he was greater than Melchior. His blood leaped at the thought;
he wished to proclaim his exultation to the world.

But things soon took a different turn.

In the confusion, Rag, lying almost beneath his comrades' feet, got
himself kicked. He leaped to his feet, dazed, roaring like a bull, and,
stupid lout that he was, took unreasoning vengeance upon the first
object which caught his eye. This chanced to be Nicanor.

"See what thou hast brought us to, son of perdition!" he cried. "But for
thee and thy fool's tales we should be lying asleep like good men and
true. This is thy work, with thy talk on heaven and hell and flowers
which vomit blood. God's death! Heard ever man the like? If thou knowest
not of what thou pratest, thou hast lied, and that deserves a beating.
If thou dost know, thou hast the black art of magic,--an evil-doer, with
familiars who tell thee things not to be known of earth; and that
deserves a fl