only hoped, as he galloped onward, that they belonged to outlaws
and not to rangers. Too soon he saw that his hope was vain;
there were ten or twelve stout archers with the white rosette of
York in their bonnets, the falcon and fetterlock on their
sleeves, and the Plantagenet quarterings on their breasts. In
the midst was a dead bustard, also an Englishman sitting up,
with his head bleeding; Jean was on foot, with her dagger-knife
in one hand, and holding fast to her breast her beloved hawk,
whose jesses were, however, grasped by one of the foresters.
Geordie of the Red Peel stood with his sword at his feet,
glaring angrily round, while Sir Patrick, pausing, could hear
his son David's voice in loud tones--

'I tell you this lady is a royal princess! Yes, she is'--as
there was a kind of scoff--'and we are bound on a mission to
your King from the King of Scots, and woe to him that touches a
feather of ours.'

'That may be,' said the one who seemed chief among the English,
'but that gives no licence to fly at the Duke's game, nor slay
his foresters for doing their duty. If we let the lady go, hawk
and man must have their necks wrung, after forest laws.'

'And I tell thee,' cried Davie, 'that this is a noble gentleman
of Scotland, and that we will fight for him to the death.'

'Let it alone, Davie,' said George. 'No scathe shall come to
the lady through me.'

'Save him, Davie! save Skywing!' screamed Jean.