'Just _so_. What--er--what is
the exact nature of the--ah--trouble? Any assistance these gallant
knights can render will, I am sure, be--ah--eagerly rendered.'
He looked imploringly at the silent warriors. As a rule, this speech
was the signal for roars of applause. But now there was not even a
murmur.
'I may say enthusiastically,' he added.
Not a sound.
'Precisely,' said the king, ever tactful. 'And now--you were saying?'
'I am Yvonne, the daughter of Earl Dorm of the Hills,' said the damsel,
'and my father has sent me to ask protection from a gallant knight
against a fiery dragon that ravages the country-side.'
'A dragon, gentlemen,' said the king, aside. It was usually a safe
draw. Nothing pleased the knight of that time more than a brisk bout
with a dragon. But now the tempting word was received in silence.
'Fiery,' said the king.
Some more silence.
The king had recourse to the direct appeal. 'Sir Gawain, this Court
would be greatly indebted to you if--'
Sir Gawain said he had strained a muscle at the last tournament.
'Sir Pelleas.'
The king's voice was growing flat with consternation. The situation was
unprecedented.
Sir Pelleas said he had an ingrowing toe-nail.
The king's eye rolled in anguish around the table. Suddenly it stopped.
It brightened.
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