nnet raised the old archer on his knee. He was not yet dead; his face
worked, and his eyes shut and opened like machinery, and he had a most
horrible, ugly look of one in pain.

"Can ye hear, old Nick?" asked Hatch. "Have ye a last wish before ye
wend, old brother?"

"Pluck out the shaft, and let me pass, a' Mary's name!" gasped
Appleyard, "I be done with Old England. Pluck it out!"

"Master Dick," said Bennet, "come hither, and pull me a good pull upon
the arrow. He would fain pass, the poor sinner."

Dick laid down his crossbow, and pulling hard upon the arrow, drew it
forth. A gush of blood followed; the old archer scrambled half upon his
feet, called once upon the name of God, and then fell dead. Hatch, upon
his knees among the cabbages, prayed fervently for the welfare of the
passing spirit. But even as he prayed, it was plain that his mind was
still divided, and he kept ever an eye upon the corner of the wood from
which the shot had come. When he had done, he got to his feet again,
drew off one of his mailed gauntlets, and wiped his pale face, which was
all wet with terror.

"Ay," he said, "it'll be my turn next."

"Who hath done this, Bennet?" Richard asked, still holding the arrow in
his hand.

"Nay, the saints know," said Hatch. "Here are a good two score Christian
souls that we have hunted out of house and holding, he and I. He has
paid his shot, poor shrew, nor will it be long, mayhap, ere I pay mine.
Sir Daniel driveth over-hard."

"This is a strange shaft," said the lad, looking at the arrow in his
hand.

"Ay, by my faith!" cried Bennet. "Black, and black-feathered. Here is an
ill-favoured shaft, by my sooth! for black, they say, bodes burial. And
here be words written. Wipe the blood away. What read ye?"

"'_Appulyaird fro Jon Amend-All_,'" read Shelton. "What should this
betoken?"

"Nay, I like it not," returned the retainer, shaking his head. "John
Amend-All! Here is a rogue's name for those that be up in the world! But
why stand we here to make a mark? Take him by the knees, good Master
Shelton, while I lift him by the shoulders, and let us lay him in his
house. This will be a rare shog to poor Sir Oliver; he will turn
paper-colour; he will pray like a windmill."

They took up the old archer, and carried him between them into his
house, where he had dwelt alone. And there they laid him on the floor,
out of regard for the mattress, and sought, as best they might, to
straighten and compose