"A great missile to hurl—a betrayer of orphans!"
"But what can we do?" she asked.
The old man rose. "Do?" he murmured and, drawing down his spectacles, walked to the high walnut bookcase. He opened the glass door and took down a huge volume, bound in black leather, stamped with gold. He returned to the window and riffled the thin pages. Pausing with a thick finger on the passage sought, he looked at her with something like a smile in his eyes. "Do? Fight! Fight, my dear! Fight as the men of Henry the Fifth fought at Agincourt! Fight—because it is an honorable battle. Fight with the spirit that Shakespeare poured into the ruler of Britain. Listen!
"'—he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart ...
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us. ...
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors, ...
Will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say "These wounds I had on Crispin's day." '"
His voice was profound, speech slow; he recited more than read those lines which reek with courage; his eyes snapped, his frame seemed straighter.
"—'And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
