The Immortal slapped Sir Wallace across the cheeks and said they’d fight it out right here.
Sir Wallace mopped his brow and said nay, they’d duel seven noons from today.
It was a spirited reply, so off the Immortal went with a wench, and off Sir Wallace went with his maid, preparing in hush and haste for the inevitable. They ducked into his house, locked up the shutters and shut up the doors, and such a clatter came from inside that by Day Two minstrels sang of his brave preparation.
On Day Five there arrived a fencing teacher who looked suspiciously like the town lothario in an eye-patch and rapier, announcing he’d instruct Sir Wallace as he slipped inside the shrouded abode, one arm entwined with the maid’s. Come Day Six a new sort of clatter came from the premises and the Immortal kicked in the doors to find only the swordsman and the maid in Sir Wallace’s bed – and Sir Wallace six days ride away.
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