And with the light of fanaticism blazing in his eyes the palmer had launched into a harangue on the priceless contents of the treasure chests of Constantinople's scores of churches. To this phase of the pilgrim's narrative Hugh paid slight attention. What he remembered was the glowing account of riches and magnificence beyond anything he had ever known. In such surroundings, flattered by a brilliant court, made much of by the facile Greek nobles, what chance was there that Edith would remember old friends in far-off, savage England? Already, mayhap, he was become a hazy memory, to be thrust hastily aside as an intruder upon the festivals of the present. At the thought, Hugh drove his spurs involuntarily into the grey stallion's flanks. The horse bounded forward, and Hugh snatched up the reins, for the first time aware of his surroundings. He was in the ride through which he and Edith had chased the fox that day they blundered upon Mocenigo's company. In the distance the dusty white surface of the London Road gleamed in its setting of greenery. Hugh stroked the stallion's neck. "Steady, Beosund," he rebuked. "I meant not the pricks. Nay, lad----" But the horse reared on his hind-legs, pawing frantically, as a swarm of silent figures rushed from the trees. Hands grasped the bridle, tore at the stirrups. A lithe fellow in woodland green leaped astride the stallion's back behind Hugh, grinding a dagger into his ribs. Hugh struggled to cast the man off, but a sinewy arm bound him helpless. He felt his feet withdrawn from the stirrups, saw hot eyes glistening at him on every side, knives slicing at his surcoat. "Curse the Norman dog! He's armoured," growled the fellow who had been exploring Hugh's ribs. He spoke in the Saxon dialect, of which Hugh had a fair understanding. "Slit his throat, then," ordered a burly ruffian, who seemed to direct operations. Hugh made a frantic effort, and tore loose one foot, bringing the heavy spur hard against the grey stallion's satin side. Frantic with pain, the great horse plunged and kicked, tossing the attackers right and left. In the confusion Hugh rolled clear, dragging with him the man who clung to his back. Over and over they spun, stabbing and pummelling in the soft forest-mould, and suddenly Hugh found himself stumbling to his feet on the edge of the London Road, the whole pack of the woodland men close on his heels. Flight was impossible, so Hugh drew his sword and set his shoulders against a tall oak that thrust its roots deep under the Roman embankment. "How, knaves," he panted, "art balked? Come, try me in the front. My back you have missed." They circled him warily, a hangdog crew of landless men and wastrels, some minus ears or hands, others with slit noses, several cruelly branded. All were clothed in woodland green, and each wielded a long, sinister knife. There were eight or nine of them, but they seemed none too eager to come to close quarters.