into the saddle, just as a rush forward was made by those
standing round. The man next to him sprang upon him, and endeavored to
drag him from the saddle. Cuthbert drew the little dagger called a
_misericorde_ from his belt, and plunged it into his throat. Then
seizing the short mace which hung at the saddlebow, he hurled it with
all his force full in the face of his enemy, the page of Sir Philip, who
was rushing upon him sword in hand. The heavy weapon struck him fairly
between the eyes, and with a cry he fell back, his face completely
smashed in by the blow, the sword which he held uplifted to strike
flying far through the air.

Cuthbert struck his spurs into his horse, and the animal dashed forward
with a bound, Cuthbert striking with his long sword at one or two men
who made a snatch at the reins. In another minute he was cantering out
of the village, convinced that he had killed the leader of his foes, and
that he was safe now to pursue the rest of his journey on to Marseilles.

So it turned out.

Without further incident he traveled through the south of France, and
arrived at the great seaport. He speedily discovered the quarters in
which the Earl of Evesham's contingent were encamped, and made toward
this without delay. As he entered a wild shout of joy was heard, and
Cnut ran forward with many gestures of delight.

"My dear Cuthbert, my dear Cuthbert!" he exclaimed. "Can it be true that
you have escaped? We all gave you up; and although I did my best, yet
had you not survived it I should never have forgiven myself, believing
that I might have somehow done better, and have saved you from the
cutthroats who attacked us."

"Thanks, thanks, my good Cnut," Cuthbert cried. "I have been through a
time of peril, no doubt; but as you see, I am hale and well--better,
methinks, than you are, for you look pale and ill; and I doubt not that
the wound which I received was a mere scratch to that which bore you
down. It sounded indeed like the blow of a smith's hammer upon an
anvil."

"Fortunately, my steel cap saved my head somewhat," Cnut said, "and the
head itself is none of the thinnest; but it tried it sorely, I confess.
However, now that you are back I shall, doubt not, soon be as strong as
ever I was. I think that fretting for your absence has kept me back more
than the inflammation from the wound itself--but there is the earl at
the door of his tent."

Through the foresters and retainers who had at Cnut's shout