78
XVII.
His kirtle, made of forest green,
Reached scantly to his knee;
And at his belt, of arrows keen
A furbished sheaf bore he;
His buckler scarce in breadth a span,
No larger fence had he;
He never counted him a man,
Would strike below the knee;
His slackened bow was in his hand,
And the leash that was his blood-hound's band.
His kirtle, made of forest green,
Reached scantly to his knee;
And at his belt, of arrows keen
A furbished sheaf bore he;
His buckler scarce in breadth a span,
No larger fence had he;
He never counted him a man,
Would strike below the knee;
His slackened bow was in his hand,
And the leash that was his blood-hound's band.
XVIII.
He would not do the fair child harm,
But held him with his powerful arm,
That he might neither fight nor flee;
For when the red-cross spied he,
The boy strove long and violently.
"Now, by St George," the archer cries,
"Edward, methinks, we have a prize!
He would not do the fair child harm,
But held him with his powerful arm,
That he might neither fight nor flee;
For when the red-cross spied he,
The boy strove long and violently.
"Now, by St George," the archer cries,
"Edward, methinks, we have a prize!
