seat of justice and hurried angrily forward, to be engulfed and
hustled in the crowd of his own monks like a sheep-dog who finds
himself entangled amid a flock.

Only the sacrist stood clear. He had taken shelter behind the
half-dozen archers, who looked with some approval and a good deal
of indecision at this bold fugitive from justice.

"On him!" cried the sacrist. "Shall he defy the authority of the
court, or shall one man hold six of you at bay? Close in upon him
and seize him. You, Baddlesmere, why do you hold back?"

The man in question, a tall bushy-bearded fellow, clad like the
others in green jerkin and breeches with high brown boots,
advanced slowly, sword in hand, against Nigel. His heart was not
in the business, for these clerical courts were not popular, and
everyone had a tender heart for the fallen fortunes of the house
of Loring and wished well to its young heir.

"Come, young sir, you have caused scathe enough," said he. "Stand
forth and give yourself up!"

"Come and fetch me, good fellow," said Nigel, with a dangerous
smile.

The archer ran in. There was a rasp of steel, a blade flickered
like a swift dart of flame, and the man staggered back, with blood
running down his forearm and dripping from his fingers. He wrung
them and growled a Saxon oath.