. "Who spares a badger for his grey hairs?
The greyer your enemy is, the older; and the older the craftier and the
craftier the better for a little killing."

"Killing? killing, Martin? Speak not of killing!" and Gerard shook all
over.

"I am much mistook if you have not," said Martin cheerfully.

"Now Heaven forbid!"

"The old vagabond's skull cracked like a walnut. Aha!"

"Heaven and the saints forbid it!"

"He rolled off his mule like a stone shot out of a cart. Said I to
myself, 'There is one wiped out,'" and the iron old soldier grinned
ruthlessly.

Gerard fell on his knees and began to pray for his enemy's life.

At this Martin lost his patience. "Here's mummery. What! you that set up
for learning, know you not that a wise man never strikes his enemy but
to kill him? And what is all this coil about killing of old men? If it
had been a young one, now, with the joys of life waiting for him, wine,
women, and pillage! But an old fellow at the edge of the grave, why not
shove him in? Go he must, to-day or to-morrow; and what better place for
greybeards? Now, if ever I should be so mischancy as to last so long
as Ghysbrecht did, and have to go on a mule's legs instead of Martin
Wittenhaagen's, and a back like this (striking the wood of his bow),
instead of this (striking the string), I'll thank and bless any
young fellow who will knock me on the head, as you have done that old
shopkeeper; malison on his memory.

"Oh, culpa mea! culpa mea!" cried Gerard, and smote upon his breast.

"Look there!" cried Martin to Margaret scornfully, "he is a priest at
heart still--and when he is not in ire, St. Paul, what a milksop!"

"Tush, Martin!" cried Margaret reproachfully: then she wreathed her arms
round Gerard, and comforted him with the double magic of a woman's sense
and a woman's voice.

"Sweetheart!" murmured she, "you forget: you went not a step out of the
way to harm him, who hunted you to your death. You fled from him. He it
was who spurred on you. Then did you strike; but in self-defence and
a single blow, and with that which was in your hand. Malice had drawn
knife, or struck again and again. How often have men been smitten with
staves not one but many blows, yet no lives lost! If then your enemy
has fallen, it is through his own malice, not yours, and by the will of
God."

"Bless you, Margaret; bless you for thinking so!"

"Yes; but, beloved one, if you have had the misfortune to kill that
wicked man,