"
"Come back, Jack! are you mad?" shouted Amyas.
But Jack (who had not all this time spoken one word) followed them
as fiercely as ever, till, reaching a great blow at one of the
arquebusiers, he caught his foot in a root; on which down he went, and
striking his head against the ground, knocked out of himself all the
breath he had left (which between fatness and fighting was not much),
and so lay. Amyas, seeing the Spaniards gone, did not care to pursue
them: but picked up Jack, who, staring about, cried, "Glory be! glory
be!--How many have I killed? How many have I killed?"
"Nineteen, at the least," quoth Cary, "and seven with one back
stroke;" and then showed Brimblecombe the captain lying dead, and two
arquebusiers, one of which was the fugitive by whom he came to his fall,
beside three or four more who were limping away wounded, some of them by
their fellows' shot.
"There!" said Jack, pausing and blowing, "will you laugh at me any more,
Mr. Cary; or say that I cannot fight, because I am a poor parson's son?"
Cary took him by the hand, and asked pardon of him for his scoffing,
saying that he had that day played the best man of all of them; and
Jack, who never bore malice, began laughing in his turn, and--
"Oh, Mr. Cary, we have all known your pleasant ways, ever since you used
to put drumble-drones into my desk to Bideford school.
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