, brother, in whose dog's carcase I will yet feather me
a shaft, sweet St. Giles aiding me--which is my patron saint, you'll
mind. _Nil desperandum_, brother: bruised and beaten, bleeding and in
bonds, yet I breathe, nothing desponding, for mark me, _a priori_,
brother, Walkyn and the young knight won free, which is well; Walkyn
hath long legs, which is better; Walkyn hath many friends i' the
greenwood, which is best of all. So do I keep a merry heart--_dum spiro
spero_--trusting to the good St. Giles, which, as methinks you know is
my--"

The archer grew suddenly dumb, his comely face blanched, and glancing
round, Beltane beheld Sir Pertolepe beside him, who leaned down from
his great white horse to smile wry-mouthed, and smiling thus, put back
the mail-coif from his pallid face and laid a finger to the linen clout
that swathed his head above the brows.

"Messire," said he soft-voiced, "for this I might hang thee to a tree,
or drag thee at a horse's tail, or hew thee in sunder with this great
sword o' thine which shall be mine henceforth--but these be deaths
unworthy of such as thou--my lord Duke! Now within Garthlaxton be
divers ways and means, quaint fashions and devices strange and rare,
messire. And when I'm done, Black Roger shall hang what's left of thee,
ere he go to feed my hounds. That big body o' thine shall rot above my
gate, and for that golden head--ha! I'll send it to Duke Ivo in
quittance for his gallows! Yet first--O, first shalt thou sigh that
death must needs be so long a-coming!"

But now, from where the van-ward marched, came galloping a tall
esquire, who, reining in beside Sir Pertolepe, pointed down the hill.

"Lord Pertolepe," he cried joyously, "yonder, scarce a mile, flies the
banner of Gilles of Brandonmere, his company few, his men scattered
and heavy with plunder."

"Gilles!" quoth Sir Pertolepe. "Ha, is it forsooth Gilles of
Brandonmere?"

"Himself, lord, and none other. I marked plain his banner with the
three stooping falcons."

"And he hath booty, say you?"

"In truth, my lord--and there be women also, three horse litters--"

"Ah--women! Verily, good Fulk, hast ever a quick eye for the flutter of
a kirtle. Now, mark me Fulk, Thornaby Mill lieth in our front, and
beyond, the road windeth steep 'twixt high banks. Let archers line
these banks east and west: let the pikemen be ambushed to the south,
until we from the north have charged them with the horse--see 'tis
done, Fulk, an