and the yellow gleam of bowstaves. A dozen armed archers forced
their way into the room. At their head were the gaunt sacrist of
Waverley and a stout elderly man clad in a red velvet doublet and
breeches much stained and mottled with mud and clay. He bore a
great sheet of parchment with a fringe of dangling seals, which he
held aloft as he entered.

"I call on Nigel Loring!" he cried. "I, the officer of the King's
law and the lay summoner of Waverley, call upon the man named
Nigel Loring!"

"I am he."

"Yes, it is he!" cried the sacrist. "Archers, do as you were
ordered!"

In an instant the band threw themselves upon him like the hounds
on a stag. Desperately Nigel strove to gain his sword which lay
upon the iron coffer. With the convulsive strength which comes
from the spirit rather than from the body, he bore them all in
that direction, but the sacrist snatched the weapon from its
place, and the rest dragged the writhing Squire to the ground and
swathed him in a cord.

"Hold him fast, good archers! Keep a stout grip on him!" cried
the summoner. "I pray you, one of you, prick off these great dogs
which snarl at my heels. Stand off, I say, in the name of the
King! Watkin, come betwixt me and these creatures who have as
little regard for the law as their master."