“Tush!—’tis but one!” said the outlaw. “He is easily dealt with; and he shall have no time to call his fellows.” So saying, the forester strode forward into the wood, where a tall figure was seen through the trees; and with uplifted quarter-staff, dealt a blow of sudden and deadly force as soon as the stranger came within its sweep, totally without warning. The power of the stroke might have felled an ox, and would have at once overthrown the new-comer, but that he was a man of unusual stature; and this being unperceived in the outlaw’s haste, the blow lighted on his left shoulder instead of on his head. “Ha, caitiff!” he exclaimed; and shortening the hunting-pole in his hand, he returned the stroke with interest, but the outlaw had already prepared himself to receive the blow on his staff. For some seconds there was a rapid exchange; and all that the boy could detect in the fierce flourish of weapons was, that his champion was at least equally matched. The height of the stranger was superior; and his movements, if less quick and violent, had an equableness that showed him a thorough master of his weapon. But ere the lad had time to cross the heather to the scene of action, the fight was over; the outlaw lay stunned and motionless on the ground, and the gigantic stranger was leaning on his hunting-pole, regarding him with a grave unmoved countenance, the fair skin of which was scarcely flushed by the exertion. “Spare him! spare him!” cried the boy, leaping forwards. “I am the prey you seek!” “Well met, my young Lord,” was the stern reply. “You have found yourself a worthy way of life, and an honourable companion.” “Honourable indeed, if faithfulness be honour!” replied the boy. “Myself I yield, Sir; but spare him, if yet he lives!—O Adam, my only friend!” he sobbed, as kneeling over him, he raised his head, undid his collar, and parted the black locks, to seek for the mark of the blow, whence blood was fast oozing. “He lives—he will do well enough,” said the hunter. “Now, tell me, boy—what brought you here?” “The loving fidelity of this man!” was the prompt reply:—“a Poitevin, a falconer at Kenilworth, who found me sore wounded on the field at Evesham, and ever since has tended me as never vassal tended lord; and now—now hath he indeed died for me!” and the boy, endeavouring to raise the inanimate form, dropped heavy tears on the senseless face. “True,” rigidly spoke the hunter, though there was somewhat of a quivering of the muscles of the cheek discernible amid the curls of his chestnut beard: “robbery is not the wonted service demanded of retainers.” “Poor Adam!” said the youth with a flash of spirit, “at least he never stripped the peaceful homestead and humble farmer, like the royal purveyors!” “Ha—young rebel!” exclaimed the hunter. “Know you what you say?”