The newcomer did not see, but the eyes of the wounded man seemed to have
been cleared by the scuffle. He was now free, and from the floor he
snatched the round shield which the ex-priest had carried, and hurled it
straight at the creeping miscreant. It was a heavy oaken thing with rim and
boss of iron, and it caught him fairly above the ear, so that he dropped
like a poled ox. The stranger turned his head to see what was happening. "A
lucky shot, friend," he cried. "I thank you." And he addressed himself to
the two pitiful bandits who remained.

But their eyes were looking beyond him to the door, and their jaws had
dropped in terror. For from outside came the sound of horses' hooves and
bridles, and two riders had dismounted and were peering into the hut. The
first was a very mountain of a man, whose conical helmet surmounted a vast
pale face, on which blond moustaches hung like the teeth of a walrus. The
said helmet was grievously battered, and the nose-piece was awry as if from
some fierce blow, but there was no scar on the skin. His long hauberk was
wrought in scales of steel and silver, and the fillets which bound his
great legs were of fine red leather. Behind him came a grizzled squire,
bearing a kite-shaped shield painted with the cognisance of a dove.

"What have we here?" said the knight in a reedy voice like a boy's. His
pale eyes contemplated the figures--the wounded man, now faint again with
pain and half-fallen on the litter of branches; his deliverer, tall and
grim, but with laughing face; the two murderers cringing in their fear; in
a corner the huddled body of the man from the south half hidden by the
shield. "Speak, fellow," and he addressed the soldier. "What work has been
toward? Have you not had your bellyfull of battles that you must scrabble
like rats in this hovel? What are you called, and whence come you?"