With remorse and reparation at his heart-strings—’tis the kind of man who could be but generous to his worst enemy—Sir Percy’s horse is flung betwixt the supposed Sir Robin and the band. “Good evening, My Lords and Gentlemen,” says the leader, in a voice like a lute. “I thank you heartily for coming my way! Purses and watches, merry Sirs, jewels, trinkets, snuff-boxes, if of gold, pins, fobs, seals, these are all the toll I demand, and shall be forced to collect, if you show any disposition to deny.” It might he wisely argued that, while this speech was being made, any gentleman might have either run the highwayman through, or put an ounce of lead into his heart, but the fact of the matter was, each gentleman found himself face to face with another gentleman who held a blunderbuss up to within three inches of his nose. My Lady’s first thought had been that Sir Robin’s men had not waited for the Sunday night to come, but presently she recognized the truth, and, stung by the fact that Sir Percy had put himself between her and danger, she was the only one of the whole company who stirred in her saddle other than to do the bidding of Tom Kidde. While the rest were busily engaged in emptying their treasures, she, making feint to do the same, says very low and tauntingly to Sir Percy: “Had I but one to show fight with me, I’d ne’er give in to these scoundrels.” “As soon done as said, Sir Robin,” whispers Percy. “No man can say I’m his lesser in courage!” with which he wrests his bridle from the blackguard whose hand’s upon it, whips out his sword with one hand, picks out his pistol with the other, grips his reins in his teeth, and strikes with steel and shot, both at once. Peg’s his match, imitating him with such a will as sets every gentleman of ’em a-shooting, a-lunging and a-cursing with all the arms and breath he’s got; and sets the robbers for a second to their wits, for they are not used to any sort of encounter, save one that’s terror-stricken and submissive in the opponent. ’Tis a bit of a mêlée quite in the dark; slashing and pounding betwixt the branches: now a man unhorsed, anon up again; shots resounding, powder flashing, until in about ten minutes or less the chief makes a plunge for Sir Percy, crying out, “So ’twas you said ‘fight,’ was’t! Have a care; no man can defy Tom Kidde and live to tell it!” “Nay!” shouts Her Ladyship, with spurs all inches into the gray’s sides, making him rear as she puts herself between Percy and the highwayman, “’twas I said ‘fight’!” Whizz! and a ball intended for Sir Percy strikes the gray dead under her. Whizz! and her ball strikes Tom Kidde from his mount.