“Ho! Ho!” gasped the first, as his rollicking humor flung him to the floor, “my graveness pulls me down!”
“Ha! Ha!” shrieked the second, his ale slopping across his noisome workhabit from the shaking of his shoulders, “perceiving the True Truth, my brew unfolds likewise in accordance with the foamy logic of its essence!”
“Hee! Hee!” giggled yet the third, draining his mug in a single quaff, “my own brew, closer to the speculation that is its proof, finds its Absolute Reason in the Idea of my gullet!”
Great was the mage’s wrath. “This is an outrage!” he cried, gesticulating wildly.
“An outrage, is it?” demanded the fourth, clutching his heaving ribs. “How so?” he gasped. “Have we not caught the germ of your thought, stripped it like a seed from its husk, and shown it to the world as its own true kernel?” And at this latest uncouth witticism, the entire party of rogues exploded into a veritable hurricane of laughter.
This most disreputable scene was now brought to a positively disastrous state of affairs. For ’twas at this very moment that the dwarf Shelyid, his normal lack of wits compounded by gross inebriety, chose to rise in defense of his mentor.
“Should’t make fun a th’master,” protested the gnome. “Hissa mighty mage, th’master, an’ hissona great ‘n’ dangerous kest—quest.” He took another draught from his pot, spilling a good half of it down his tunic. “Me too!” he added proudly. “I’m ‘nis ‘prentice.” The diminutive numbskull peered owlishly at the party of louts. He placed a finger before his lips. “Shhh!” he hissed. “Gotta keep kite—quiet. We got enemies, y’see. ‘N’ thass why—”
“Silence, cretin!” spoke the mage, wroth with wrath. He waved his arms wildly. “Be silent, I say! Enough harm have you done, you unspeakable dolt!”
“Cretin, is he?” roared the first.
“Unspeakable dolt, is he?” bellowed the second.
” ‘Tis a damnable lie!” cried the third.
“‘Tis a decent little man!” averred the fourth, clapping the dwarf’s shoulder.
“A right and proper shorty!” concurred the fifth.
“Here’s to all shrimps!” hallooed the sixth. This was apparently in the nature of a canaille toast, for the six vulgarians guzzled their pots in unison, Shelyid joining in, with a passionate ardor so utterly inappropriate to the situation that even the lambs of the field, should they have been witness, would have bleated for his blood.
“You seek the witch Magrit!” boomed the first.
“A mystery has befuddled his mind!” cried the second.
“But ’tis not for lack of his science!” pronounced the third.
“Nay—perish the thought!” protested the fourth.
“Not he—not such a prodigy among philosophes!” concurred the fifth.
“Verily, the answer lies elsewhere!” concluded the sixth.
As one man, the roughnecks leapt to their feet and cried out in unison:
“He has enemies, don’t you know!”
Then, spreading into a ragged line, the six hurly-burlies linked arms and elbows and began a most uncouth dance, accompanied by the following doggerel verse:
It’s enemies brought him low, don’t you know,
don’t you know?
Enemies what’s brought him low, don’t you know,
don’t you know?
Hid the truth from his cunning, don’t you know,
don’t you know?
Hid theyselves from his cunning, don’t you know,
don’t you know?
And that’s why he’s here, don’t you know,
don’t you know?
A-looking up old Magrit, don’t you know,
don’t you know?
At any rate, this tiresome and disgraceful ditty went on for some little time, showing on the part of its authors neither couth nor urbanity. Even worse was the spectacle presented by the treasonous dwarf Shelyid, who not only attempted to join the dance—in which enterprise he failed due to his by-now-total state of drunkenness—but even, sprawled on the floor, attempted to learn the words, and then!—when he failed in this enterprise as well due to his sodden incapacity to form any words beyond mush—still managed to beat time to the tune with his ale pot. A sad and sorry sight, indeed!
As for the wizard himself, it is not inaccurate to state that this proved to be one of the rare moments in his life when he was actually speechless, so great was his indignation. It goes without saying that this atypical speechlessness was all that saved the six lowlifes from the most gruesome of fates. For had the wizard been able to form coherent phrases, there is not the slightest doubt that the hexes and spells which would have issued from his lips should have brought down upon the half-dozen hooligans a termination so hideous as to have served generations of proletarian mothers in cautioning their children on the dangers of insulting a sorcerer.