"By the black rood of Bromeholm!" he cried, "I had as soon put my
hand down a fox's earth to drag up a vixen from her cubs."

"Standoff!" said Nigel curtly. "I would not hurt you; but by
Saint Paul! I will not be handled, or some one will be hurt in
the handling."

So fierce was his eye and so menacing his blade as he crouched in
the narrow bay of the window that the little knot of archers were
at a loss what to do. The Abbot had forced his way through the
crowd and stood, purple with outraged dignity, at their side.

"He is outside the law," said he. "He hath shed blood in a court
of justice, and for such a sin there is no forgiveness. I will
not have my court so flouted and set at naught. He who draws the
sword, by the sword also let him perish. Forester Hugh lay a
shaft to your bow!"

The man, who was one of the Abbey's lay servants, put his weight
upon his long bow and slipped the loose end of the string into the
upper notch. Then, drawing one of the terrible three-foot arrows,
steel-tipped and gaudily winged, from his waist, he laid it to the
string.

"Now draw your bow and hold it ready!" cried the furious Abbot.
"Squire Nigel, it is not for Holy Church to shed blood, but there
is naught but violence which will prevail against the violent, and
on your head be the sin. Cast down the sword which you hold in
your hand!"