The limp he had acquired on a stricken field in Italy, when the horsemen charged across.

He had just dragged my father clear of the hoofs when he was lanced through the thigh, overthrown, and trampled.

My father, conscious but helpless from his own wounds, witnessed it all.

And so, as I say, Pons had earned such a right to impudent familiarity that at least there was no gainsaying him by my father's son.
Pons shook his head as I drained the huge draught.
"Did you hear it boil ?" I laughed, as I handed back the empty tankard.
"Like your father," he said hopelessly.

"But your father lived to learn better, which I doubt you will do." "He got a stomach affliction," I devilled, "so that one mouthful of spirits turned it outside in.