swarthy man with a long black beard. He had a red cap and an ax
over his shoulder. There were ten other hardy-looking fellows, all of
them well armed, and there were three who seemed to be boys.

"Shall we try a shaft upon them?" asked Hugh Baddlesmere. "They are well
within our bowshot."

"Only one of you can shoot at a time, for you have no footing," said
Badding. "With one foot in the prow and one over the thwart you will get
your stance. Do what you may, and then we will close in upon them."

The archer balanced himself in the rolling boat with the deftness of a
man who has been trained upon the sea, for he was born and bred in
the Cinque Ports. Carefully he nocked his arrow, strongly he drew it,
steadily he loosed it, but the boat swooped at the instant, and it
buried itself in the waves. The second passed over the little ship, and
the third struck in her black side. Then in quick succession so quick
that two shafts were often in the air at the same instant--he discharged
a dozen arrows, most of which just cleared the bulwarks and dropped upon
the deck. There was a cry on the Frenchman, and the heads vanished from
the side.

"Enough!" cried Badding. "One is down, and it may be two. Close in,
close in, in God's name, before they rally!"

He and the other bent to their oars; but at the same instant there was
a sharp zip in the air and a hard clear sound like a stone striking a
wall. Baddlesmere clapped his hand to his head, groaned and fell forward
out of the boat, leaving a swirl of blood upon the surface. A moment
later the same fierce hiss ended in a loud wooden crash, and a short,
thick crossbow-bolt was buried deep in the side of their boat.

"Close in, close in!" roared Badding, tugging at his oar. "Saint George
for England! Saint Leonard for Winchelsea! Close in!"

But again that fatal crossbow twanged. Dicon of Rye fell back with a
shaft through his shoulder. "God help me, I can no more!" said he.

Badding seized the oar from his hand; but it was only to sweep the
boat's head round and pull her back to the Marie Rose. The attack had
failed.

"What now, master-shipman?" cried Nigel. "What has befallen to stop us?
Surely the matter does not end here?"

"Two down out of five," said Badding, "and twelve at the least against
us. The odds are too long, little master. Let us at least go back, fill
up once more, and raise a mantelet against the bolts, for they have an
arbalist which shoots both straight a