with all the other dogs bellowing after him and battering and crashing against everything that came in their way and making altogether a chaos of confusion and a most deafening din and turmoil; at which every man and woman of the multitude laughed till the tears flowed, and some fell out of their chairs and wallowed on the floor in ecstasy. It was just like so many children. Sir Dinadan was so proud of his exploit that he could not keep from telling over and over again, to weariness, how the immortal idea happened to occur to him; and, as is the way with humorists of his breed, he was still laughing at it after everybody else had got through. He was so set up that he concluded to make a speech – of course a humorous speech. I think I never heard so many old played-out jokes strung together in my life. He was worse than the minstrels, worse than the clown in the circus. It seemed peculiarly sad to sit here, thirteen hundred years before I was born and listen again to poor, flat, worm-eaten jokes that had given me the dry gripes when I was a boy thirteen hundred years afterwards. It about convinced me that there isn’t any such thing as a new joke possible. Everybody laughed at these antiquities – but then they always do; I had noticed that, centuries later. However, of course the Scoffer didn’t laugh – I mean the boy. No, he scoffed; there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t scoff at. He said the most of Sir Dinadan’s jokes were rotten and the rest were petrified. I said “petrified” was good; as I believed, myself, that the only right way to classify the majestic ages of some of those jokes was by geologic periods. But that neat idea hit the boy in a blank place, for geology hadn’t been invented yet. He failed to catch on. However, I made a note of the remark, and calculated to educate the commonwealth up to it if I pulled through. It is no use to throw a good thing away merely because the market isn’t ripe yet.
Now Sir Kay arose and began to fire up on his history-mill, with me for fuel. It was time for me to feel serious, and I did. Sir Kay told how he had encountered me in a far land of barbarians who all wore the same ridiculous garb that I did – a garb that was a work of enchantment and intended to make the wearer secure from hurt by human hands. However, he had nullified the force of the enchantment by prayer, and had killed my thirteen knights in a three-hours’ battle and taken me prisoner, sparing my life in order that so strange a curiosity as I was might be exhibited to the wonder and admiration of the king and the court. He spoke of me all the time, in the blandest way, as “this prodigious giant,” and “this horrible sky-towering monster,” and “this tushed and taloned man-devouring ogre;” and everybody took in all this bosh in the naivest way, and never smiled or seemed to notice that there was any discrepancy between these watered statistics and me. He said that in trying to escape from him I sprang into the top of a tree two hundred cubits high at a single bound, but he dislodged me with a stone the size of a cow, which “all-to brast” the most of my bones[26], and then swore me to appear at Arthur’s court for sentence. He ended by condemning me to die at noon on the 21st; and was to little concerned about it that he stopped to yawn before he named the date.
I was in a dismal state by this time; indeed, I was hardly enough in my right mind to keep the run of a dispute that sprung up as to how I had better be killed, the possibility of the killing being doubted by some, be cause of the enchantment in my clothes. And yet it was nothing but an ordinary suit of fifteen-dollar slop-shops. Still, I was sane enough to notice this detail, to wit: many of the terms used in the most matter-of-fact way by this great assemblage of the first ladies and gentlemen in the land would have made a Comanche[27] blush. Indelicacy is too mild a term to convey the idea. However, I had read “Tom Jones,” and “Roderick Random,”[28] and other books of that kind, and knew that the first ladies and gentlemen in England had remained little or no cleaner in their talk, and in the morals and conduct which such talk implies, clear up to a hundred years ago; in fact, clear into our own nineteenth century – in which century, broadly speaking, the earliest samples of the real lady and real gentleman discoverable in English history – or in European history, for that matter – may be said to have made their appearance. Suppose Sir Walter, instead of putting the conversations into the mouths of his characters, had allowed the characters to speak for themselves? We should have had talk from Rebecca and Ivanhoe and the soft Lady Rowena[29] which would embarrass a tramp in our day. However, to the unconsciously indelicate, all things are delicate. King Arthur’s people were not aware that they were indecent, and I had presence of mind enough not to mention it.
They were so troubled about my enchanted clothes that they were mightily relieved, at last, when old Merlin swept the difficulty away for them with a common-sense hint. He asked them why they were so dull – why didn’t it occur to them to strip me. In half a minute I was as naked as a pair of tongs! And dear, dear, to think of it: I was the only embarrassed person there. Everybody discussed me; and did it as unconcernedly as if I had been a cabbage. Queen Guenever was as naively interested as the rest, and said she had never seen anybody with legs just like mine before. It was the only compliment I got – if it was a compliment.
Finally, I was carried off in one direction, and my perilous clothes in another. I was shoved into a dark and narrow cell in a dungeon, with some scant remnants for dinner, some mouldy straw for a bed, and no end of rats for company.
Chapter 5
An Inspiration
I was so tired that even my fears were not able to keep me awake long.
When I next came to myself, I seemed to have been asleep a very long time. My first thought was, “Well, what an astonishing dream I’ve had! I reckon I’ve waked only just in time to keep from being hanged or drowned or burned, or something. …I’ll nap again till the whistle blows, and then I’ll go down to the arms-factory and have it out with Hercules.”
But just then I heard the harsh music of rusty chains and bolts, a light flashed in my eyes, and that butterfly, Clarence, stood before me! I gasped with surprise; my breath almost got away from me.
“What!” I said, “you here yet? Go along with the rest of the dream! scatter!”
But he only laughed, in his light-hearted way, and fell to making fun of my sorry plight.
“All right,” I said resignedly, “let the dream go on; I’m in no hurry.”
“Prithee what dream?”
“What dream? Why, the dream that I am in Arthur’s court – a person who never existed; and that I am talking to you, who are nothing but a work of imagination.”
“Oh, la, indeed! and is it a dream that you’re to be burned to-morrow? Ho-ho – answer me that!”
The shock that went through me was distressing. I now began to reason that my situation was in the last degree serious, dream or no dream; for I knew by past experience of the life-like intensity of dreams, that to be burned to death, even in a dream, would be very far from being a jest, and was a thing to be avoided, by any means, fair or foul, that I could contrive. So I said beseechingly:
“Ah, Clarence, good boy, only friend I’ve got, – for you are my friend, aren’t you? – don’t fail me; help me to devise some way of escaping from this place!”
“Now do but hear thyself! Escape? Why, man, the corridors are in guard and keep of men-at-arms.”
“No doubt, no doubt. But how many, Clarence? Not many, I hope?”
“Full a score. One may not hope to escape.” After a pause – hesitatingly: “and there be other reasons – and weightier.”
“Other ones? What are they?”
“Well, they say – oh, but I daren’t, indeed I daren’t!”
“Why,
“all-to brast” the most of my bones – (
Comanche – кочевое племя североамериканских индейцев
«Tom Jones», «Roderick Random» – «История Тома Джонса, найденыша» – реалистический роман Г. Филдинга (1707–1754); «Приключения Родерика Рэндома» – роман того же направления Т. Смоллета (1721– 1771).
Rebecca and Ivanhoe and the soft Lady Rowena – персонажи исторического романа В. Скотта «Айвенго» (1819), действие которого происходит во второй половине XII века.
