The evil faces of the four were growing merry. They were worthless
soldiers, but adepts in murder. Loot was their first thought, but after
that furtive slaying. There seemed nothing to rob here, but there was weak
flesh to make sport of.

Gil warily crept on one side, where he held his spear ready. The ex-priest,
who had picked up somewhere a round English buckler, gave the orders. "I
will run in on him, and take his stroke, so you be ready to close. There is
nothing to be feared from the swine. See, he is blooded and faints."

The lantern had been set on the ground by the door and revealed only the
lower limbs of the four. Their heads were murky in shadow. Their speech was
foreign to the wounded man, but he saw their purpose. He was clearly
foredone with pain, but his vacant eyes kindled to slow anger, and he shook
back his hair so that the bleeding broke out again on his forehead. He was
as silent as an old tusker at bay.

The ex-priest gave the word and the four closed in on him. He defeated
their plan by hurling himself on the leader's shield, so that his weight
bore him backwards and he could not use his weapon. The spears on the
flanks failed for the same reason, and the two men posted there had
well-nigh been the death of each other. The fourth, the one from the south,
whose business it had been to support the priest, tripped and fell
sprawling beside the lantern.

The Englishman had one arm round the priest's neck and was squeezing the
breath out of him. But the blood of the four was kindling, and they had
vengeance instead of sport to seek. Mouthing curses, the three of them went
to the rescue of the leader, and a weaponless and sore-wounded man cannot