nd dragged the Knight away,
and whipped the rope about his arms.

"Marry," exclaimed the leader, brushing the dirt from his clothes, "I
am sorry they did not let us have the wrestle out--though you are a
quick hitter, my lord, and powerful strong in the arms. I wager you
showed James more stars than he ever knew existed."

James, still dazed, was struggling to get up, and one of the others
gave him a hand.

"By St. Hubert," he growled, rubbing his head in pain and scowling at
De Lacy, "if there be more I have no wish to see them."

In the fight De Lacy's forearm had struck the point of his own dagger,
where it protruded below the brigand's belt, and the blood was
scarleting the white sleeve of his tunic.

The leader came over and bared the wound.

"It is a clean gash, my lord," he said, "but will need a bandage." He
drew a bow-cord around the arm above the elbow; then, "With your
permission," carefully cut away the sleeve and deftly bound up the hurt.

De Lacy watched him curiously.

"You are a charming outlaw," he observed; "a skillful surgeon--and I
fancy, if you so cared, you could claim a gentle birth."

The man stepped back and looked him in the eyes a moment.

"If I remove the bonds, will you give me your Knightly word to remain
here, speaking to no one until . . . the sun has passed the topmost
branch of yonder oak?"

The Knight bowed.

"That I will, and thank you for the courtesy."

At a nod the rope was loosed, and the next instant the outlaws had
vanished in the forest--but De Lacy's cloak lay at his feet, flung
there by the chief himself.

"St. Denis!" De Lacy marveled, "has Robin Hood returned to the flesh?"

Then he looked at the sun, and resumed his seat on the fallen tree.

"A pretty mess," he mused--"a stranger in England--my first day at
Windsor and the jest of the castle. . . Stripped like a jowly
tradesman . . . taken like a cooing babe . . . purseless . . .
daggerless . . . bonnetless . . . doubletless--aye, naked, but for an
outlaw's generosity . . . cut by my own weapon"--he held up his hand
and looked at the abraded knuckles--"and that is all the credit I have
to show--the mark of a caitiff's chin. . . Methinks I am fit only for
the company of children."

He glanced again at the sun--it seemed not to have moved at all--then
sat in moody silence; the wound was smarting now, and he frowned at it
every time it gave an extra twinge. . . Would the sun never
move? . . . He go