e black
rood! I shall drive him into the earth, like a nail into a door, rather
than see you do scath to each other."

"'Fore God, this is a strange way of preaching peace," cried Black
Simon. "You may find the scath yourself, my lusty friend, if you raise
your great cudgel to me. I had as lief have the castle drawbridge drop
upon my pate."

"Tell me, Aylward," said Alleyne earnestly, with his hands outstretched
to keep the pair asunder, "what is the cause of quarrel, that we may see
whether honorable settlement may not be arrived at?"

The bowman looked down at his feet and then up at the moons "Parbleu!"
he cried, "the cause of quarrel? Why, mon petit, it was years ago in
Limousin, and how can I bear in mind what was the cause of it? Simon
there hath it at the end of his tongue."

"Not I, in troth," replied the other; "I have had other things to think
of. There was some sort of bickering over dice, or wine, or was it a
woman, coz?"

"Pasques Dieu! but you have nicked it," cried Aylward. "It was indeed
about a woman; and the quarrel must go forward, for I am still of the
same mind as before."

"What of the woman, then?" asked Simon. "May the murrain strike me if I
can call to mind aught about her."

"It was La Blanche Rose, maid at the sign of the 'Trois Corbeaux' at
Limoges. Bless her pretty heart! Why, mon gar., I loved her."

"So did a many," quoth Simon. "I call her to mind now. On the very day
that we fought over the little hussy, she went off with Evan ap Price,
a long-legged Welsh dagsman. They have a hostel of their own now,
somewhere on the banks of the Garonne, where the landlord drinks so much
of the liquor that there is little left for the customers."

"So ends our quarrel, then," said Aylward, sheathing his sword. "A Welsh
dagsman, i' faith! C'etait mauvais gout, camarade, and the more so when
she had a jolly archer and a lusty man-at-arms to choose from."

"True, old lad. And it is as well that we can compose our differences
honorably, for Sir Nigel had been out at the first clash of steel; and
he hath sworn that if there be quarrelling in the garrison he would
smite the right hand from the broilers. You know him of old, and that he
is like to be as good as his word."

"Mort-Dieu! yes. But there are ale, mead, and wine in the buttery, and
the steward a merry rogue, who will not haggle over a quart or two.
Buvons, mon gar., for it is not every day that two old friends come
together."

The o