No more passed, for we were at the inn; a long, low house, with a green in front, where some scores of men sat or sprawled, drinking ale and loud in talk, but keeping a watchful eye on the doings at the tavern. Two dozen men, or thereabout, in the Mulgrave colours, armed with muskets and cutlasses, stood near the porch; an equal number of Dutchmen, pistols in belt and gun in hand, sat on empty barrels, pails turned bottom upward, hen-coops, anything. The Islonians on the green were for the most part unarmed, except for the staff and big knife, without which our men never stir from home, but here and there a cross-bow was to be seen. Within the house, at one of the open windows, sat several young fellows of my acquaintance, Dick Portington among them, merry over their wine. No likelihood of disturbance, thought I, the crowd being in good humour, and the Mulgrave retinue and the Dutch having such advantage in the matter of weapons. But as Mistress Goel disappeared within the doorway, and I turned to lead my horse to the stable, two of the earl's men happened to put down their guns, leaning them against the wall. In a twinkling, Dick reached out of the window, and seized them. "Ale or wine, gentlemen?" he asked, as if he were a tapster. And full in sight of the crowd he emptied a tankard into the muzzles, and handed the weapons out again. "Any other gentleman want a barrelful?" he inquired. A roar of laughter came from the green. One of the two men drew pistol from belt, and made as if to fire at Dick, but I, being just behind him, knocked up his elbow, and the pistol flew out of his hand without hurt. Another roar from the spectators filled the air. Some of the Mulgrave men threw themselves on me, gripping me by the arms, and one struck me in the face. Then I, who had been so intent on prudence and peace-making, lost my wits, swung myself free from my captors, and knocked down the man who had struck me. A pretty scuffle ensued. Dick and others sprang out of the window, and came to my help with no weapons, but clenched fists and a riding whip or two. For a minute or so the struggle went on at close quarters, so that the earl's men could not use their weapons with effect, and their comrades, outside the mellay, could not strike or fire without risk of killing or maiming their own men; but at the words, "Shoot, you dolts, shoot," spoken by some one I did not see, several pieces were discharged. Will Staniforth, who was close to me, fell, blood pouring from his neck. I knelt to support him, but he was past help. The bullet had ploughed a horrible gash upward, and entered the brain. There was a gurgle in his throat, a shudder went through his whole body, and he was dead. When I rose from my knees, three of my friends had muskets in their hands, Dick Portington being one. The earl's retainers had formed a half circle in front of us, their pieces levelled.