"We are in time, we are in time," said Amelot, dropping the reins of his bridle, and joyfully clapping his hands; "shake thy banner abroad, Genvil--give Wenlock and his fellows a fair view of it.-- Comrades, halt--breathe your horses for a moment.--Hark hither, Genvil--If we descend by yonder broad pathway into the meadow where the cattle are--" "Bravo, my young falcon" replied Genvil, whose love of battle, like that of the war-horse of Job, kindled at the sight of the spears, and at the sound of the trumpet; "we shall have then an easy field for a charge on yonder knaves." "What a thick black cloud the villains make" said Amelot; "but we will let daylight through it with our lances--See, Genvil, the defenders hoist a signal to show they have seen us." "A signal to us?" exclaimed Genvil. "By Heaven, it is a white flag--a signal of surrender!" "Surrender! they cannot dream of it, when we are advancing to their succour," replied Amelot; when two or three melancholy notes from the trumpets of the besieged, with a thundering and tumultuous acclamation from the besiegers, rendered the fact indisputable. "Down goes Wenlock's pennon," said Genvil, "and the churls enter the barricades on all points.--Here has been cowardice or treachery--What is to be done?" "Advance on them," said Amelot, "retake the place, and deliver the prisoners." "Advance, indeed!" answered the banner-man--"Not a horse's length by my counsel--we should have every nail in our corslets counted with arrow-shot, before we got down the hill in the face of such a multitude and the place to storm afterwards--it were mere insanity." "Yet come a little forward along with me," said the page; "perhaps we may find some path by which we could descend unperceived." Accordingly they rode forward a little way to reconnoitre the face of the hill, the page still urging the possibility of descending it unperceived amid the confusion, when Genvil answered impatiently, "Unperceived!-you are already perceived--here comes a fellow, pricking towards us as fast as his beast may trot." As he spoke, the rider came up to them. He was a short, thick-set peasant, in an ordinary frieze jacket and hose, with a blue cap on his head, which he had been scarcely able to pull over a shock head of red hair, that seemed in arms to repel the covering. The man's hands were bloody, and he carried at his saddlebow a linen bag, which was also stained with blood. "Ye be of Damian de Lacy's company, be ye not?" said this rude messenger; and, when they answered in the affirmative, he proceeded with the same blunt courtesy, "Hob Miller of Twyford commends him to Damian de Lacy, and knowing his purpose to amend disorders in the commonwealth, Hob Miller sends him toll of the grist which he has grinded;" and with that he took from the bag a human head, and tendered it to Amelot. "It is Wenlock's head," said Genvil--"how his eyes stare!"