Fulk had laid his arrows ready against the wall, and that battle of the bows began and lasted no more than thirteen minutes. The loaf on the broomstick was slain three times over. Fulk brought down two men and winged another, till Merlin’s men lost heart and took cover in the thickets. They had shot off nearly all their arrows, and had no more than six left between them. Fulk stood there, waiting for a chance shot. “Seventeen less three leaves fourteen, without counting Master Merlin.” He mused, leaning one shoulder against the wall. “Can you read me this riddle, Isoult? Who has set these dogs on us?” She had taken off her helmet, and stood looking up at him. “Who can tell?” His face had grown grim, though she could not see it. “Treachery somewhere! Or was it chance? I would trust Knollys and Cavendish to the death. No; chance has it. Some underling has blabbed on the road and Merlin got wind of it. They have a blood debt against us, Isoult. But for us these scullions might be lording it in London.” He half raised his bow, but dropped it again. “I thought I had a shot. When night comes the game will begin.” “They will have to cross the water.” “Merlin has wit enough. They will cut down trees and float over. We shall have to hold the house against them.” The day brought no further adventures, and Fulk and Isoult made ready against a probable siege. They fastened the shutters of all the lower windows, and carried a store of food and water up into the solar, Fulk foreseeing that he might have to make his last stand there if Merlin’s men broke in. The gentry across the water kept close in the thickets. Fulk saw the smoke of a fire rising and guessed that they would lie hidden till night came. About sunset they heard the sound of men felling timber in the wood nearest the mere. Fulk and Isoult were supping at the daïs table, and they looked at each other meaningly. “Axes! Merlin is getting ready.” Dusk fell, and they went to their stations, Isoult taking a window in the short passage leading from the stairs to the solar, Fulk going to the loft window over the kitchen. Over the tree tops he could see streaks of yellow sky banded by purple clouds. A blue gloom seemed to rise in the woods like water and flow out over the valley. Axes were still at work in the wood, but Merlin’s men did not show themselves, having come by a wholesome respect for the shooting of the two in the house over the water. Before long the moon would be up in a clear summer sky, and Fulk guessed that Merlin would seize the darkness between sunset and moonrise to get his timber float dragged down to the water. Sure enough, as the dusk deepened, he saw figures appear on the edge of the wood—dim, busy figures that hacked at the undergrowth and hauled at ropes made of girdles knotted together. It was a long carry to the edge of the wood, and the chances of a hit so vague that Fulk husbanded his arrows and left the men alone.