I wheeled round hastily to learn the reason, and was just in time to see three horsemen sweep into the road before him from the cover of the trees. They were so close to him--and they filled the road--that his horse carried him amongst them almost before he could check it, or so it seemed to me. I heard their loud challenge, saw his arm wave, and guessed that his sword was out. I spurred desperately to join him, giving a wild shout of encouragement as I did so. But before I could come up, or indeed cross half the distance, the scuffle was over. One man fell headlong from his saddle, one horse fled riderless down the road, and at sight of this, or perhaps of me, the others turned tail without more ado and made off, leaving Master Bertie in possession of the field. The whole thing had passed in the shadow of the wood in less than half a minute. When I drew rein by him he was sheathing his sword. "Is it Clarence?" I cried eagerly. "No, no; I did not see him. I think not," he answered. He was breathing hard and was very much excited. "They were poor swordsmen, for Spaniards," he added--"very poor, I thought." I jumped off my horse, and, kneeling beside the man, turned him over. He was badly hurt, if not dying, cut across the neck. He looked hard at him by such light as there was, and did not recognize him as one of our assailants of the night before. "I do not think he is a Spaniard," I said slowly. Then a certain suspicion occurred to my mind, and I stooped lower over him. "Not a Spaniard?" Master Bertie said stupidly. "How is that?" Before I answered I raised the man in my arms, and, carrying him carefully to the side of the road, set him with his back to a tree. Then I got quickly on my horse. The women were just coming up. "Master Bertie," I said in a low voice, as I looked this way and that to see if the alarm had spread, "I am afraid there is a mistake. But say nothing to them. It is one of the town-guard you have killed!" "One of the town-guard!" he cried, a light bursting in on him, and the reins dropping from his hand. "What shall we do? We are lost, man!" CHAPTER XIV. AT BAY IN THE GATEHOUSE. What was to be done? That was the question, and a terrible question it was. Behind us we had the inhospitable country, dark and dreary, the night wind sweeping over it. In front, where the lights twinkled and the smoke of the town went up, we were like to meet with a savage reception. And it was no time for weighing alternatives. The choice had to be made, made in a moment; I marvel to this day at the quickness with which I made it for good or ill.