Yesterday's events were still fresh in his mind; and he had a feeling that the letting of Lempriere's blood would cool his own and be some cure for the choler which the presence of these strangers at the Court had wrought in him.
There were better swordsmen in England than he, but his skill was various, and he knew tricks of the trade which this primitive Norman could never have learnt.

He had some touch of wit, some biting observation, and, as he neared the place of the encounter, he played upon the coming event with a mordant frivolity.

Not by nature a brave man, he was so much a fatalist, such a worshipper of his star, that he had acquired an artificial courage which had served him well.

The unschooled gentlemen with him roared with laughter at his sallies, and they came to the place of meeting as though to a summer feast.
"Good-morrow, nobility," said Leicester with courtesy overdone, and bowing much too low.

"Good-morrow, valentine," answered Lempriere, flushing slightly at the disguised insult, and rising to the moment.
"I hear the crop of fools is short this year in Jersey, and through no fault of yours--you've done your best most loyally," jeered Leicester, as he doffed his doublet, his gentlemen laughing in derision.
"'Tis true enough, my lord, and I have come to find new seed in England, where are fools to spare; as I trust in Heaven one shall be spared on this very day for planting yonder." He was eaten with rage, but he was cool and steady.
He was now in his linen and small clothes and looked like some untrained Hercules.
"Well said, nobility," laughed Leicester with an ugly look.