Now, back!'

The Goshawk lunged out with the truncheon, but the prisoner displayed no
hesitation in complying, and fell back about a space of fifteen yards.

'I suppose he guesses I've never done the stupid trick before,' mused
Guy, 'or he would not be so sharp.' Observing that Farina had also
fallen back in a line as guard, Guy motioned him to edge off to the right
more, bawling, 'Never mind why!'

'Now,' thought Guy, 'if I were sure of notching him, I'd do the speech
part first; but as I'm not--throwing truncheons being no honourable
profession anywhere--I'll reserve that. The rascal don't quail. We'll
see how long he stands firm.'

The Goshawk cleared his wrist, fixed his eye, and swung the truncheon
meditatively to and fro by one end. He then launched off the shoulder a
mighty down-fling, calmly, watching it strike the prisoner to earth, like
an ox under the hammer.

'A hit!' said he, and smoothed his wrist.

Farina knelt by the body, and lifted the head on his breast. 'Berthold!
Berthold!' he cried; 'no further harm shall hap to you, man! Speak!'

'You ken the scapegrace?' said Guy, sauntering up.

''Tis Berthold Schmidt, son of old Schmidt, the great goldsmith of
Cologne.'