"Here's mummery.

What! you that set up for learning, know you not that a wise man never strikes his enemy but to kill him?
And what is all this coil about killing of old men?
If it had been a young one, now, with the joys of life waiting for him, wine, women, and pillage! But an old fellow at the edge of the grave, why not shove him in?
Go he must, to-day or to-morrow; and what better place for greybeards?
Now, if ever I should be so mischancy as to last so long as Ghysbrecht did, and have to go on a mule's legs instead of Martin Wittenhaagen's, and a back like this (striking the wood of his bow), instead of this (striking the string), I'll thank and bless any young fellow who will knock me on the head, as you have done that old shopkeeper; malison on his memory.
"Oh, culpa mea! culpa mea!" cried Gerard, and smote upon his breast.
"Look there!" cried Martin to Margaret scornfully, "he is a priest at heart still--and when he is not in ire, St.Paul, what a milksop!" "Tush, Martin!" cried Margaret reproachfully: then she wreathed her arms round Gerard, and comforted him with the double magic of a woman's sense and a woman's voice.
"Sweetheart!" murmured she, "you forget: you went not a step out of the way to harm him, who hunted you to your death.

You fled from him.

He it was who spurred on you.

Then did you strike; but in self-defence and a single blow, and with that which was in your hand.