round the neck of a fawn, huddled closely to her. The cloak had been torn in two or three places, and through the rents showed the whiteness of her arm stained with blood. Her face was deathly pale, but her eyes were bright and dauntless. The fellows parted right and left as I rode up, and some of them seemed half ashamed of themselves before I spoke. "What devilry is this?" I shouted. "You vile cowards! To set your dogs on a woman!" A stout fellow, whose face bore many scars of old wounds, nicknamed Stride-a-mile from his skill in stilt-walking, answered me boldly enough-- "The devilry is none of ours. The foreign woman has bewitched the fawn, and won't give it up. How could we hinder the dogs snapping at her?" "You lie, you rascal," I replied. "The curs are harmless enough now that you are not hissing them on." Half a dozen mongrel hounds were whimpering and snarling and growling round the lady, but not attempting to bite. "Maybe I am a liar and a coward and a devil, Master Vavasour," said Stride-a-mile; "but the fawn is ours, and we mean to have it. We found it and the doe yonder"--pointing to a carcase which lay on the ground thirty yards off--"out of forest bounds, and we've chased it, and 'tis ours." The fellow looked round on his comrades, some of whom answered the look by gripping cudgels, displaying their big knives, or setting their crossbows. Boiling with rage at what I deemed the fellow's insolence, and forgetting the odds against me, and what might happen to the lady, if I should be overborne, I raised my riding-whip, and touched Trueboy's side with my heel, when an oldish man, whom I did not know, stepped between me and Stride-a-mile, saying-- "A parley, squire. 'Twould be a bad day's work if harm came to you; and venison isn't worth any man's life. Maybe the lady will explain to you why she wants the whole fawn. It would go bad long before she could eat it all. If she would be satisfied with a haunch, now, we won't say her nay." Angry though I was, I could not forbear laughing that the lady should be suspected of so inordinate desire of venison, but I knew no more than the fat fellow himself what her reason was for keeping their game from the rabble. I looked at her inquiringly. She spoke in a clear, sweet voice. "When its mother fell, and the dogs sprang upon her, the poor little creature ran straight to me, and its dear, brown eyes said, 'Save me,' as well as eyes can speak. How could I be so cruel as to refuse its suppliant plea?" As her own fawn-like eyes were lifted to me, I wished I could paint the beautiful face as a picture of the Mother of Pity. "Will the men take money for the fawn, if they wish to eat it?" she asked, holding out a piece of gold between thumb and finger. Most of the men brightened at the suggestion, but Stride-a-mile answered-- "Who's to say 'tis good? No foreign tokens for us. For aught we know 'tis witches' money, and will turn to cinder."