This crying on of the hound was called forth by a chase up the street, in which the Goshawk beheld Farina pursue and capture a stalwart runaway, who refused with all his might to be brought back, striving every two and three of his tiptoe steps to turn against the impulse Farina had got on his neck and nether garments. 'Who 'd have thought the lad was so wiry and mettlesome, with his soft face, blue eyes, and lank locks? but a green mead has more in it than many a black mountain. Hail, and well done! if I could dub you knight, I would: trust me!' and he shook Farina by the hand. Farina modestly stood aside, and allowed the Goshawk to confront his prisoner. 'So, Sir Shy-i'the-dark! gallant Stick-i'the-back! Squire Truncheon, and Knight of the noble order of Quicksilver Legs! just take your stand at the distance you were off me when you discharged this instrument at my head. By 'r lady! I smart a scratch to pay you in coin, and it's lucky for you the coin is small, or you might reckon on it the same, trust me. Now, back!' The Goshawk lunged out with the truncheon, but the prisoner displayed no hesitation in complying, and fell back about a space of fifteen yards. 'I suppose he guesses I've never done the stupid trick before,' mused Guy, 'or he would not be so sharp.' Observing that Farina had also fallen back in a line as guard, Guy motioned him to edge off to the right more, bawling, 'Never mind why!' 'Now,' thought Guy, 'if I were sure of notching him, I'd do the speech part first; but as I'm not--throwing truncheons being no honourable profession anywhere--I'll reserve that. The rascal don't quail. We'll see how long he stands firm.' The Goshawk cleared his wrist, fixed his eye, and swung the truncheon meditatively to and fro by one end. He then launched off the shoulder a mighty down-fling, calmly, watching it strike the prisoner to earth, like an ox under the hammer. 'A hit!' said he, and smoothed his wrist. Farina knelt by the body, and lifted the head on his breast. 'Berthold! Berthold!' he cried; 'no further harm shall hap to you, man! Speak!' 'You ken the scapegrace?' said Guy, sauntering up. ''Tis Berthold Schmidt, son of old Schmidt, the great goldsmith of Cologne.' 'St. Dunstan was not at his elbow this time!' 'A rival of mine,' whispered Farina. 'Oho!' and the Goshawk wound a low hiss at his tongue's tip. 'Well! as I should have spoken if his ears had been open: Justice struck the blow; and a gentle one. This comes of taking a flying shot, and not standing up fair. And that seems all that can be said. Where lives he?' Farina pointed to the house of the Lilies. 'Beshrew me! the dog has some right on his side. Whew! yonder he lives? He took us for some night-prowlers. Why not come up fairly, and ask my business?