

The King continued to struggle in the woman’s strong grasp, and now and
then cried out in vexation--

“Unhand me, thou foolish creature; it was not I that bereaved thee of
thy paltry goods.”

The crowd closed around, threatening the King and calling him names; a
brawny blacksmith in leather apron, and sleeves rolled to his elbows,
made a reach for him, saying he would trounce him well, for a lesson;
but just then a long sword flashed in the air and fell with convincing
force upon the man’s arm, flat side down, the fantastic owner of it
remarking pleasantly, at the same time--

“Marry, good souls, let us proceed gently, not with ill blood and
uncharitable words.