"Down with them!" shouted Sir Mark, as he recovered from his astonishment; and, drawing his sword, he made a rush at the disturbers of the judicial tragedy. His first attempt, though, was unfortunate, for he fell over the prostrate body of Master Peasegood, who had been overset in the struggle; and his men hung back as they saw the rough-looking countrymen whip out the weapons they had concealed beneath their gaberdines, and form a bold front. There was ample room, for the crowd fled shrieking as the bright steel flashed before their eyes. They had gazed in a stupefied, puzzled manner at the disturbance of the faggot pile, and wondered whether it was part of the show or the result of witchcraft; but the bold rescue of the wretched woman they could understand, and they hastened to find safety in flight. Sir Mark was not long in recovering himself, and, calling to the armed men to follow, he pursued the retiring party, which retreated steadily along the narrow track, which, after it had passed Mother Goodhugh's, gradually assumed the nature of a forest footpath, and grew more rugged at every step. Attempts were made to outflank the party, but the density of the forest rendered that impossible, and those who left the path lost ground, while Sir Mark found himself kept at bay by the rear-guard of the retreating men. "These are no countrymen," he muttered to himself, as he saw how steadily they kept up the retreat; and he was in the act of cheering on his little force to make a rush where the pathway opened a little, when cries from behind warned him that he was attacked in the rear. He bit his lip angrily as he found how cleverly his men were trapped, for it was evident enough that a portion of those he pursued had turned off to right or left, allowing him and his men to pass, and then closing up to attack, this rear movement being the signal for those in front to turn and make a desperate charge upon him and his London men. It was so sharp a surprise that, at the end of five minutes' cutting and thrusting, Sir Mark was down, faint and sick from a slash across the cheek, and his men had thrown up their weapons and fled helter-skelter through the forest, leaving the rescuers of Mother Goodhugh to proceed in peace. "Single file, my lads, and away!" cried a well-known voice. "One of you relieve Wat Kilby, and change and change as you grow fagged. Wat, go round by the lower stream. I'll come last and hide the trail." It required little hiding, for the men passed on and disturbed the herbage but slightly, while, after turning off to right and left in various narrow half-hidden tracks, their course could not have been discovered by the keenest eye, especially as one cut was made right across the forest.