And he flamed at me while his hand dropped to his rapier.
"Faith," thought I, "the gray old man has many and strange tools," while to the cockerel I bowed and murmured, "Your pardon for my clumsiness.

The fault was mine.

Your pardon, Villehardouin." But he was not to be appeased thus easily.

And while he fumed and strutted I glimpsed Robert Lanfranc, beckoned him to us, and explained the happening.
"Sainte-Maure has accorded you satisfaction," was his judgment.

"He has prayed your pardon." "In truth, yes," I interrupted in my suavest tones.