The road curled around a projecting bank, and without warning they burst from the wood onto the edge of a cleared space, where another road crossed the one by which they were travelling. Midway of this space in front of a wayside shrine, a group of ragged knaves swirled about a knot of serving men, who fell rapidly before the clubs and long knives of the attackers. Beside the shrine a second group of robbers guarded a man and woman on horseback. "Forest runners," said Matteo. "St. James, but we are in luck!" exulted Hugh. "There are more than a score of the rogues. Ralph, do you stand by to cover our charge. We shall surprise them right merrily." Ralph dismounted, nimbly notched his string and knocked an arrow. "Spears?" questioned Matteo. "No," Hugh decided. "No knightly weapons for such enemies. The sword shall be their portion." They drew their blades and charged. The outlaws set up a shrill screaming, and scattered loosely. But they were no cowards, those forest ruffians. Light-footed and agile, they ran to meet the mailed horsemen, trying to leap up behind and stab under the folds of the hauberk or to hock the horses in passing. But Hugh and Matteo were ready for them, and Ralph, from the forest edge, sent his deadly arrows hissing through the air whenever one of the comrades was in danger. Back and forth swayed the fight, the grey stallion and Matteo's Arab bearing their full share of the conflict with pawing hoofs and champing jaws. Hugh fought as he had been taught, thrusting ahead by main strength, cutting down whoever stepped in his path. Matteo fought after the Saracen fashion, manoeuvring his horse to right or left, avoiding blows and seeking to deal them where they were least expected. The comrades hacked a bloody path in the outlaws' ranks, but try as they might, they could not win to the prisoners. The most they could achieve was to drive the enemy steadily before them until the two hostile groups were united by the shrine. Then Hugh called a halt. "Curse this helm!" he cried. "I cannot see for it! Prithee, Matteo, help me unbuckle it. 'Twas not intended for such a bicker." When it was off he sat bare-headed, inhaling the fragrant forest air and studying the situation which confronted them. Half-a-dozen outlaws lay with the dead servants of the two prisoners, around whom clustered the remnant of the band. Whilst Hugh looked, the woman waved her hand to him and smiled. She was clad in a close-fitting green habit that emphasised the flowing lines of her tall figure. Her face Hugh saw vaguely to be very beautiful. The man was huddled in his saddle, apparently cowed by the savagery of his captors. His rich dress, no less than hers, bespoke their exalted degree. "Best not charge the knaves, Hugh," urged Matteo. "Stir their anger and make them break toward us. So we may ride them down easier." "Good counsel," Hugh approved. "What ho, varlets!" he hailed the outlaws. "Hast had enough?"