Martin Valliant awoke. He uttered a great cry, and rushed toward the little turret where the stairway opened upon the leads. As he reached it Peter Swartz caught him by the sword belt. “Stay, you fool!” Martin tried to thrust him off, but Swartz kept his hold. “No, no, my friend, knock my teeth out if it pleases you, but if your head’s on fire mine had better do the thinking.” “Let go, man.” “And see you rush out there and be ridden down and spitted like that poor popinjay! Thirty to one are heavy odds, Martin Valliant.” “Let go, curse you.” “And hold on, say I. Listen to reason, man, and use your wits. You’ll not help that girl by getting yourself killed.” “The strength of God is in me.” “And the brains of a sheep! The game is not lost and won yet, but it will be if you go rushing out like a mad bull. Cunning, man—cunning and patience.” Martin stood irresolute, his eyes full of wrath and yearning. “If I must die, I’ll die now, Swartz.” “Oh, good fool, set your teeth and bide your time! It is no time for dying. What use would a dead man be to the child out yonder? Set your teeth, Martin Valliant; play the grim dog who can watch and wait.” He laid his arm across Martin’s shoulders and drew him aside. “Why, man, I’m with you, and you will thank me to-morrow for this. And here are we squabbling and scuffling when we should be watching like hawks. Come—we must match John Rich for cunning.” Martin Valliant surrendered, but he covered his face with his sword-arm and stood shaking like a man with the ague. Meanwhile John Rich was riding back at his leisure, the bridle of Mellis’s horse over his wrist. Ten of his men had gone in pursuit of the foresters from Bloody Rood, and two more had dismounted, taken young Blount’s body by the heels, and were dragging it down to the mere. John Rich brought his horse close to the bridge-head, and his trumpeter blew a summons. “A parley, Valliant.” Martin straightened himself, with a sudden shining of the eyes. He saw Mellis sitting her horse beside John Rich, pale, motionless, tragically calm. She looked up toward the tower, and Martin fancied that she smiled; he felt that his heart would break for her. “If they would take me and let her go!” Swartz scoffed at his madness. “My Lord of Troy is no honey-pot, to catch flies and let them escape as they please. Have nothing to say to John Rich; let him blow his trumpet till the fellow’s cheeks burst.” Martin stood forward, resting his hands on the pommel of his sword. John Rich hailed him. “Hallo, there! Come down and open the gate. The game is played out.” Martin Valliant’s eyes were fixed on Mellis’s face. He was wondering whether she despised him for not rushing out to strike a blow for her—whether she thought him a coward. Swartz had crouched down behind the wall, and was watching Martin narrowly. “Steady, brother. That child has brave eyes and a fine heart. She will understand. Tell Rich to go to the devil.”