I just gazed at him.
"'In hith hall,'" he shouted. "'And h-o-p-hop-e-s-t-hopest thou then
unthscathed to go?'"
The boy's knees began to bend under him, and he was reaching a long, thin
arm out behind hunting for the bench. He was fleeing. I knew it. I
warned him.
"No--go on--read on."
Abraham sighed and drew his sleeve across his mouth from the elbow to the
tips of his fingers. Then he sang:
"'Noby--Thent Bride--ofBoth--wellno--updraw--bridgegrooms--whatward--erho
--lettheportculluthfall!'"
Young Spiker collapsed.
"'Lord Marmion turned; well was his need,'" I cried, "if Douglas ever
addressed him in that fashion."
"Now watch me, boys," I added. And with as much fire as I could kindle
in so short a time and under conditions so dampening, I thundered the
resounding lines: "'No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge,
grooms--what, warder, ho!'"
"'Let the portcullis fall!'" This last command rang from the back of the
room. Perry Thomas stood there smiling.
"I couldn't have done it better myself, Mark," he said.
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