is companion's brains out. So in silence they walked
under the spread of the branches on the grass-grown path from Boldre.

"By St. Paul!" quoth the knight, "but this is a passing strange sight,
and perchance some very perilous and honorable venture may arise from
it. I pray you, Edricson, to ride up to them and to ask them the cause
of it."

There was no need, however, for him to move, for the twain came swiftly
towards them until they were within a spear's length, when the man
with the cross sat himself down sullenly upon a tussock of grass by the
wayside, while the other stood beside him with his great cudgel still
hanging over his head. So intent was he that he raised his eyes neither
to knight nor squires, but kept them ever fixed with a savage glare upon
his comrade.

"I pray you, friend," said Sir Nigel, "to tell us truthfully who you
are, and why you follow this man with such bitter enmity?

"So long as I am within the pale of the king's law," the stranger
answered, "I cannot see why I should render account to every passing
wayfarer."

"You are no very shrewd reasoner, fellow," quoth the knight; "for if
it be within the law for you to threaten him with your club, then it is
also lawful for me to threaten you with my sword."

The man with the cross was down in an instant on his knees upon the
ground, with hands clasped above him and his face shining with hope.
"For dear Christ's sake, my fair lord," he cried in a crackling voice,
"I have at my belt a bag with a hundred rose nobles, and I will give it
to you freely if you will but pass your sword through this man's body."

"How, you foul knave?" exclaimed Sir Nigel hotly. "Do you think that
a cavalier's arm is to be bought like a packman's ware. By St. Paul! I
have little doubt that this fellow hath some very good cause to hold you
in hatred."

"Indeed, my fair sir, you speak sooth," quoth he with the club, while
the other seated himself once more by the wayside. "For this man is
Peter Peterson, a very noted rieve, draw-latch, and murtherer, who has
wrought much evil for many years in the parts about Winchester. It was
but the other day, upon the feasts of the blessed Simon and Jude, that
he slew my younger brother William in Bere Forest--for which, by the
black thorn of Glastonbury! I shall have his heart's blood, though I
walk behind him to the further end of earth."

"But if this be indeed so," asked Sir Nigel, "why is it that you have
come with him