ing's law
and the lay summoner of Waverley, call upon the man named Nigel Loring!"

"I am he."

"Yes, it is he!" cried the sacrist. "Archers, do as you were ordered!"

In an instant the band threw themselves upon him like the hounds on a
stag. Desperately Nigel strove to gain his sword which lay upon the iron
coffer. With the convulsive strength which comes from the spirit rather
than from the body, he bore them all in that direction, but the sacrist
snatched the weapon from its place, and the rest dragged the writhing
Squire to the ground and swathed him in a cord.

"Hold him fast, good archers! Keep a stout grip on him!" cried the
summoner. "I pray you, one of you, prick off these great dogs which
snarl at my heels. Stand off, I say, in the name of the King! Watkin,
come betwixt me and these creatures who have as little regard for the
law as their master."

One of the archers kicked off the faithful dogs. But there were others
of the household who were equally ready to show their teeth in defense
of the old house of Loring. From the door which led to their quarters
there emerged the pitiful muster of Nigel's threadbare retainers. There
was a time when ten knights, forty men-at-arms and two hundred archers
would march behind the scarlet roses. Now at this last rally when the
young head of the house lay bound in his own hall, there mustered at
his call the page Charles with a cudgel, John the cook with his longest
spit, Red Swire the aged man-at-arms with a formidable ax swung over
his snowy head, and Weathercote the minstrel with a boar-spear. Yet this
motley array was fired with the spirit of the house, and under the lead
of the fierce old soldier they would certainly have flung themselves
upon the ready swords of the archers, had the Lady Ermyntrude not swept
between them:

"Stand back, Swire!" she cried. "Back, Weathercote Charles, put a
leash on Talbot, and hold Bayard back!" Her black eyes blazed upon the
invaders until they shrank from that baleful gaze. "Who are you, you
rascal robbers, who dare to misuse the King's name and to lay hands upon
one whose smallest drop of blood has more worth than all your thrall and
caitiff bodies?"

"Nay, not so fast, dame, not so fast, I pray you!" cried the stout
summoner, whose face had resumed its natural color, now that he had a
woman to deal with. "There is a law of England, mark you, and there are
those who serve and uphold it, who are the true men and the King's o