We were none too soon. The archers had already shot a round at the Black Prince and the Abbot and were stringing their bows for a second attack. The armor of the two warriors had, of course, protected them from hurt. They were both on foot and advancing step by step with dogged resolution. But there was always a chance that the point of an arrow pierce their armor at the vulnerable spot where the headpiece is joined to the corslet or through the opening for the eyes or mouth. As soon as he saw what was happening, the Dwarf let out one of his unearthly yells. He bade each of us to single out a man. We raised our bows and the next second the twang of them sung in our ears. One fellow dropped kicking in the dust. The archer, whom Charles hit, clapped his hand to his side and sank down on the grass at the edge of the road. My fellow was more fortunate, for, although I had taken a steady aim at the region of his heart, he made a sudden move as the arrow left the bow. I caught him above the elbow in the fleshy part of the arm. Although his wound was not deadly, it must have stung him with pain, for he uttered a scream. He threw his bow at his feet and with his arm limp at his side shuffled off to tear his shirt into strips to stop the flow of blood. The victory was ours. It took only one round of arrows to bring our foes to our feet. The few of those left standing did not know which way to turn. The Dwarf with Charles and me at his heels broke from out our cover of the rocks. Each of us once more drew an arrow on his man. But it was only a threat that needed no carrying out. Our enemies saw that we had the upper hand and that to make a further show of fight would only mean their deaths. As though they were obeying a command, they threw their weapons out into the road and advanced with their hands extended as a sign of their submission. It was all over. I ran faster than I had ever run before to the Abbot of Chalonnes. By this time he had raised his visor and was beaming on me with all the old-time twinkle in his eye. “Where is the dagger that you were to bring to the Abbot of Chalonnes?” he demanded playfully. “It is in the shirt of one of those fellows lying on the road,” I said. “He took it from me when they captured us in the inn.” He gave me a resounding clap on the shoulder. “It’s of no consequence,” he said. “I let you take it from me when I met you on the highway near your home. I knew you were without weapons and I was sure you would have need of it to protect yourself.” He smiled and looked at me a long time. “Ah, lad,” he said finally, “you have made a great fight of it. The best of it all is that you have come through.” “But,” said I, “how did you get here?” “I went back and made a long detour through the north of France. I knew you would have trouble near the end of your journey.” “But, my horse?” I insisted. “Where did you find him?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.