“What‘s to do？” said the Lord Glozelle. “An attack？”
“A parley， rather，” said Sopespian. “See， they carry green branches. They are coming to surrender most likely.”
“He that is walking between the Centaur and the Giant has no look of surrender in his face，” said Glozelle. “Who can he be？ It is not the boy Caspian.”
“No indeed，” said Sopespian. “This is a fell warrior， I warrant you， wherever the rebels have got him from. He is （in your Lordship’s private ear） a kinglier man than ever Miraz was. And what mail he wears！ None of our smiths can make the like.”
“I‘ll wager my dappled Pomely he brings a challenge， not a surrender，” said Glozelle.
“How then？” said Sopespian. “We hold the enemy in our fist here. Miraz would never be so hairbrained as to throw away his advantage on a combat.”
“He might be brought to it，” said Glozelle in a much lower voice.
“Softly，” said Sopespian. “Step a little aside here out of earshot of those sentries. Now. Have I taken your Lordship’s meaning aright？”
“If the King undertook wager of battle，” whispered Glozelle， “why， either he would kill or be killed.”
“So，” said Sopespian， nodding his head.
“And if he killed we should have won this war.” “Certainly. And if not？”