“Sire，” said Reepicheep. “My life is ever at your command， but my honour is my own. Sire， I have among my people the only trumpeter in your Majesty’s army. I had thought， perhaps， we might have been sent with the challenge. Sire， my people are grieved. Perhaps if it were your pleasure that I should be a marshal of the lists， it would content them.”
A noise not unlike thunder broke out from somewhere overhead at this point， as Giant Wimbleweather burst into one of those not very intelligent laughs to which the nicer sorts of Giant are so liable. He checked himself at once and looked as grave as a turnip by the time Reepicheep discovered where the noise came from.
“I am afraid it would not do，” said Peter very gravely. “Some humans are afraid of mice.”
“I had observed it， Sire，” said Reepicheep.
“And it would not be quite fair to Miraz，” Peter continued， “to have in sight anything that might abate the edge of his courage.”
