"You shall hear in good time," answered the freebooter, growing somewhat more familiar in his tone. "As you say, St. Herman's brake is deep enough in the forest--and if we had once housed him there, we might have searched him from top to toe for the packet--ay, and looked in his mouth, if we found it no where else. But the first objection was, that an arquebuse, though a very pretty weapon, and pleasant serviceable companion in broad brawl and battle, talks too loud for secret service, and the noise thereof might put the Count's people on their guard before we secured his person. However, they say '_a Norman cow can always get over a stile_,' so I offered to do the business with yon arbalete;" and he pointed to a steel cross-bow lying near, of that peculiar shape which seems to unite the properties of the cross-bow and gun, propelling the ball or bolt by means of the stiff arched spring and cord, by which little noise is made, while the aim is rendered more certain by a long tube similar to the barrel of a musket, through which the shot passes. "When was I ever known to miss my aim?" continued the Norman. "Why, I always shoot my stags in the eye, for fear of hurting the skin. However, Mortagne--your old friend, Monsieur de Chavigni--who was a sort of band captain amongst us, loved blood, as you know, like an unreclaimed falcon; besides, he had some old grudge against the Count, who turned him out of the Queen's anteroom, when he was Ancient in the Cardinal's guard. He it was who over-ruled my proposal. He would have shot him willingly enough, but your gentleman would not hear of that; so we attacked the Count's train, at the turn of the road--boldly, and in the face. Mortagne was lucky enough to get a fair cut at his head, which slashed through his beaver, and laid his skull bare, but went no farther, only serving to make the youth as savage as a hurt boar; for I had only time to see his hand laid upon his sword, when its cross was knocking against Mortagne's ribs before, and the point shining out between his blade-bones behind. It was done in the twinkling of an eye." "He is a gallant youth," said Chavigni; "he always was from a boy; but where is your wounded companion?" "Wounded!" cried the Norman. "Odds life! he's dead. It was enough to have killed the Devil. There he lies, poor fellow, wrapped in his cloak. Will you please to look upon him, Sir Counsellor?" and snatching up one of the torches, he approached the spot where the dead man lay, under a bank covered with withered brush-wood and stunted trees.