"I say the Norman dog is armoured," repeated the man who had leaped up behind Hugh. "Why waste lives on him? A clothyard shaft will do the trick, and no blood spilled." "Ay," returned the fellow who had ordered the slitting of Hugh's throat, "and if he dies by the arrow we shall have the Sheriff and the King's Verderers out to take vengeance on us. The greenwood will be too hot for comfort, my word on't. A knife, now--that's another matter. One knife is the same as the next, and there be a-many weasand-slitters are not killers of the King's deer." "I like it not," objected a third fellow. "I came not here to be killed in a stranger's quarrel." "We came to earn good ale and bread," returned the leader. "One charge and he falls." They strung out and advanced cautiously. At a cluck from the lips of their chief they came together in a group, and whilst Hugh's attention was diverted by this manoeuvre, one of them made a quick dash, ducking and aiming to strike under his guard. But Hugh saw the trick and cut downward, severing the man's head from his shoulders. The rest of the band recoiled. "Hast had enough?" demanded Hugh. They yelped at him like so many wolves. "What said I?" howled their leader. "We must all at him together. Every blade, lads. And if some die, why, there will be more ale for the rest." They answered with a long-drawn yelp of hatred and, stirred to madness by the spouting blood of their comrade, closed around Hugh in a rancid, furry tangle of knotted limbs and shifting knives. In a minute he was down in the dust of the road, and they were falling over him, cutting each other in their fury, snarling and gnashing their teeth, screaming curses and scratching and pounding when their knives were useless. Hugh fought as best he could, twisting and turning behind their bodies to dodge the knife-thrusts at throat and face, shortening his sword to fend off blows under his hauberk. But the struggle was hopeless. He knew he must weary and falter, and in that moment die. But the realisation steeled him to fresh efforts. He tore loose from a man who grappled his sword-arm, stabbed into the groin of a second, and shook off a third who pinned his legs. He was almost free, and staggered to his feet--only to be overwhelmed again under a wave of sweating, evil faces. Filthy hands groped at his throat; a knife flashed in his eyes. "Edith," he gasped. "St. James! My soul----" There was a rattle of hoofs on the roadway, a sharp cry and clang of steel. "Christ and the Sepulchre! Forward! Out upon you, knaves!"