his limbs.

Appleyard's house was clean and bare. There was a bed, with a blue
cover, a cupboard, a great chest, a pair of joint-stools, a hinged table
in the chimney-corner, and hung upon the wall the old soldier's armoury
of bows and defensive armour. Hatch began to look about him curiously.

"Nick had money," he said. "He may have had three score pounds put by. I
would I could light upon't! When ye lose an old friend, Master Richard,
the best consolation is to heir him. See, now, this chest. I would go a
mighty wager there is a bushel of gold therein. He had a strong hand to
get, and a hard hand to keep withal, had Appleyard the archer. Now may
God rest his spirit! Near eighty year he was afoot and about, and ever
getting; but now he's on the broad of his back, poor shrew, and no more
lacketh; and if his chattels came to a good friend, he would be merrier,
methinks, in heaven."

"Come, Hatch," said Dick, "respect his stone-blind eyes. Would ye rob
the man before his body? Nay, he would walk!"

Hatch made several signs of the cross; but by this time his natural
complexion had returned, and he was not easily to be dashed from any
purpose. It would have gone hard with the chest had not the gate
sounded, and presently after the door of the house opened and admitted a
tall, portly, ruddy, black-eyed man of near fifty, in a surplice and
black robe.

"Appleyard," the newcomer was saying, as he entered, but he stopped
dead. "Ave Maria!" he cried. "Saints be our shield! What cheer is this?"

"Cold cheer with Appleyard, sir parson," answered Hatch, with perfect
cheerfulness. "Shot at his own door, and alighteth even now at purgatory
gates. Ay! there, if tales be true, he shall lack neither coal nor
candle."

Sir Oliver groped his way to a joint-stool, and sat down upon it, sick
and white.

"This is a judgment! O, a great stroke!" he sobbed, and rattled off a
leash of prayers.

Hatch meanwhile reverently doffed his salet and knelt down.

"Ay, Bennet," said the priest, somewhat recovering, "and what may this
be? What enemy hath done this?"

"Here, Sir Oliver, is the arrow. See, it is written upon with words,"
said Dick.

"Nay," cried the priest, "this is a foul hearing! John Amend-All! A
right Lollardy word. And black of hue, as for an omen! Sirs, this knave
arrow likes me not. But it importeth rather to take counsel. Who should
this be? Bethink you, Bennet. Of so many black ill-willers, which should
he be that