The horse comes close, you leap out cart wheeling in a flurry of blade and the remains of the puke. The horse rears up in fear. You land with you legs at the perfect 50 degree cavalier stance.
You stand there, the sun shinning from behind you, your silhouette stands like an ancient greek statue of swashbuckling perfection. You stare with cold steel eyes into the Frenchmans very soul, you can not work out if he is aghast or agog.
‘Now give me you purse, you foul ….’ You say.
‘Que?’ he says as you remember he is abut a Frenchman and does not know gods clean language.
‘Grrrr! Arggggggh!’ you say in the tongue of universal banditry.
He squeals like a girl and throws down his purse
Do you :-
Now get off the horse you prurient pus bag!