THE TAVERN KNIGHT By Rafael Sabatini




CHAPTER I

ON THE MARCH

He whom they called the Tavern Knight laughed an evil laugh -
such a laugh as might fall from the lips of Satan in a sardonic
moment.

He sat within the halo of yellow light shed by two tallow
candles, whose sconces were two empty bottles, and
contemptuously he eyed the youth in black, standing with white
face and quivering lip in a corner of the mean chamber. Then
he laughed again, and in a hoarse voice, sorely suggestive of
the bottle, he broke into song. He lay back in his chair, his
long, spare legs outstretched, his spurs jingling to the lilt
of his ditty whose burden ran:

On the lip so red of the wench that's sped
His passionate kiss burns, still-O!
For 'tis April time, and of love and wine