Understanding that he was to be set on, Peter sprang forward and snatched the Scotchman’s sword from the ground where it had fallen, at the same time dropping his staff and drawing his dagger with the left hand. Now he was well armed, and looked so fierce and soldier-like as he faced his foes, that, although four or five blades were out, they held back. Then Peter spoke for the first time, for he knew that against so many he had no chance. “Englishmen,” he cried in ringing tones, but without shifting his head or glance, “will you see me murdered by these Spanish dogs?” There was a moment’s pause, then a voice behind cried: “By God! not I,” and a brawny Kentish man-at-arms ranged up beside him, his cloak thrown over his left arm, and his sword in his right hand. “Nor I,” said another. “Peter Brome and I have fought together before.” “Nor I,” shouted a third, “for we were born in the same Essex hundred.” And so it went on, until there were as many stout Englishmen at his side as there were Spaniards and Scotchmen before him. “That will do,” said Peter, “we want no more than man to man. Look to the women, comrades behind there. Now, you murderers, if you would see English sword-play, come on, or, if you are afraid, let us go in peace.” “Yes, come on, you foreign cowards,” shouted the mob, who did not love these turbulent and privileged guards. By now the Spanish blood was up, and the old race-hatred awake. In broken English the sergeant of the guard shouted out some filthy insult about Margaret, and called upon his followers to “cut the throats of the London swine.” Swords shone red in the red sunset light, men shifted their feet and bent forward, and in another instant a great and bloody fray would have begun. But it did not begin, for at that moment a tall señor, who had been standing in the shadow and watching all that passed, walked between the opposing lines, as he went striking up the swords with his arm. “Have done,” said d’Aguilar quietly, for it was he, speaking in Spanish. “You fools! do you want to see every Spaniard in London torn to pieces? As for that drunken brute,” and he touched the corpse of Andrew with his foot, “he brought his death upon himself. Moreover, he was not a Spaniard, there is no blood quarrel. Come, obey me! or must I tell you who I am?” “We know you, Marquis,” said the leader in a cowed voice. “Sheath your swords, comrades; after all, it is no affair of ours.” The men obeyed somewhat unwillingly; but at this moment arrived the ambassador de Ayala, very angry, for he had heard of the death of his servant, demanding, in a loud voice, that the man who had killed him should be given up. “We will not give him up to a Spanish priest,” shouted the mob. “Come and take him if you want him,” and once more the tumult grew, while Peter and his companions made ready to fight.