'Your licence is given, Sir King?' demanded Kitson.

'My licence is given for a combat _a l'outrance_,' said Henry; but, as
they were about to flounder back on their big farm-horses, he raised his
voice to a thundering sound: 'Solely on this condition, that he who slays
his neighbour, be he Trenton or Kitson, shall hang for the murder ere I
leave Thirsk.'

There was a recoil, and the mayor himself ventured to observe something
about the judgment of God, and 'never so seen.'

'And I say,' thundered Henry, and his blue eyes seemed to flame with
vehement indignation, 'I say that the ordeal of battle is shamefully
abused, and that it is a taking of God's name--ay, and man's life--in
vain, to appeal thereto on every coxcomb's quarrel, risking the life that
was given him to serve God's ends, not his own sullen fancy. I will have
an end of such things!--And you, gentlemen, since the heriard is dead, or
too old to settle the question, shake hands, and if you must let blood,
come to France with me next month, and flesh your knives on French and
Scots.'

'So please you, Sir,' grumbled Kitson, 'there's Mistress Agnes of
Mineshull; she's been in doubt between the two of us these five years,
and she'd promised to wed whichever of us got the better.'

'I'll settle her mind for her! Whichever I find foremost among the
French, I'll send home to her a knight, and with better sense to boot
than to squabble for nine years as to an old horse.'