When I was a boy in
Gascony I learned to throw both far and straight, so that I made
sure that I could hit this gallant Englishman.
With a shout I rushed forward and hurled the ball at him. It
flew as swift as a bullet toward his ribs, but without a word he
swung his staff and the ball rose a surprising distance in the
air. Lord Rufton clapped his hands and cheered. Again the ball
was brought to me, and again it was for me to throw. This time
it flew past his head, and it seemed to me that it was his turn
to look pale.
But he was a brave man, this gardener, and again he faced me.
Ah, my friends, the hour of my triumph had come! It was a red
waistcoat that he wore, and at this I hurled the ball. You would
have said that I was a gunner, not a hussar, for never was so
straight an aim. With a despairing cry--the cry of the brave man
who is beaten --he fell upon the wooden pegs behind him, and they
all rolled upon the ground together. He was cruel, this English
milord, and he laughed so that he could not come to the aid of
his servant.
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