Mandorallen turned back toward the insolently sneering baron. "My Lord," the great Knight said distantly, "I find thy face apelike and thy form misshapen. Thy beard, moreover, is an offense against decency, resembling more closely the scabrous fur which doth decorate the hinder portion of a mongrel dog than a proper adornment for a human face. Is it possible that thy mother, seized by some wild lechery, did dally at some time past with a randy goat?"

 

The baron went livid and he spluttered, unable to speak.

 

"Thou seemeth wroth, my Lord," Mandorallen said to him in that same deceptively mild tone, "or mayhap thine unseemly breeding hath robbed thy tongue of human speech." He looked critically at the baron. "I do perceive, my Lord, that thou art afflicted with cowardice as well as lack of breeding, for, in truth, no man of honour would endure such deadly insult as those which I have delivered unto thee without some response. Therefore, I fear I must goad thee further." He removed his gauntlet.

 

As all the world knew, it was customary to hurl one's gauntlet to the floor when issuing a challenge. Mandorallen somehow missed the floor. The young baron staggered backward, spitting teeth and blood. "Thou art no longer a youth, Sir Mandorallen," he raged. "Long has thou used thy questionable reputation to avoid combat. Methinks it is time for thee to be truly tried."

 

"It speaks," Mandorallen said with feigned astonishment. "Behold this wonder, my Lords and Ladies - a talking dog."

 

The court laughed at that.