“Alberic de Maltravers!” he cried, in a voice clear and loud as the call of a silver trumpet, “before God he shall rue it,” and with the words he snatched his lance from the page, and dashing spurs into his splendid Spanish charger, thundered his orders out with the rapid rush of a winter’s torrent. “Bend your bows, archers,--draw home your arrows to the head! stand, thou foul ravisher, dishonest Norman, false gentleman, and recreant knight! Stand on the instant, or we shoot! Cut loose the yeoman from the tree, ye varlets, and the good priest. Randal, cast loose the bloodhounds down to the bridge across yon knoll, and lay them on the track of that flying scoundrel. Ha! they will meet us.” And so in truth they did; for seeing that he could not escape the deadly archery, Alberic de Maltravers wheeled short on his pursuers, and shouted his war-cry--“Saint Paul for Alberic!--false knight and liar in your throat. Saint Paul! Saint Paul! charge home,”--and with the words the steel-clad men-at-arms drove on, expecting by the weight of their harness to ride down and scatter the light archery like chaff. Unarmed although he was, De Mortemar paused not--not for a moment!--but galloped in his green doublet as gallantly upon his foe as though he had been sheathed in steel. He had but one advantage--but one hope!--to bear his iron-clad opponent down at the lance point, without closing--on! they came, on!--Maltravers swinging his twohanded sword aloft, and trusting in his mail to turn the lance’s point--De Mortemar with his long spear in rest--“Saint Paul! Saint Paul!”--they met! the dust surged up in a dense cloud! the very earth appeared to shake beneath their feet!--but not a moment was the conflict doubtful. Deep! deep! throughed his linked mail, and through his leathern jerkin, and through his writhing flesh, the grinded spear-head shove into his bosom, and came out at his back, the ash-staff breaking in the wound. Down he went, horse and man!--and down, at one close volley of the gray goose shafts, down went his three companions!--one shot clear through the brain by an unerring shaft--the others stunned and bruised, their horses both slain under them. “Secure them,” shouted Hugh, “bind them both hand and foot, and follow,”--and he paused not to look upon his slain assailant, but galloped down the hill, followed by half his train, the bloodhounds giving tongue fiercely, and already gaining on the fugitive. It was a fearful race, but quickly over!--for though the man-at-arms spurred desperately on, his heavy Norman horse, oppressed, moreover, by his double load, had not a chance in competing with the proud Andalusian of De Mortemar. Desperately he spurred on--but now the savage hounds were up with him--they rushed full at the horse’s throat and bore him to the earth--another moment, Raoul was a bound captive, and Marian, rescued by her liege lord, and wrapped in his own mantle, was clasped in the fond arms of her husband!