"I have done it, Martin."

"Yes, you have done it; I spied you. What will the old folks at home say
to this?"

"What care I?"

Martin Lightfoot shook his head, and drew out his knife.

"What is that for?" said Hereward.

"When the master kills the game, the knave can but skin it. We may sleep
warm under this fur in many a cold night by sea and moor."

"Nay," said Hereward, laughing; "when the master kills the game he must
first carry it home. Let us take him and set him up against the bower door
there, to astonish the brave knights inside." And stooping down, he
attempted to lift the huge carcass; but in vain. At last, with Martin's
help, he got it fairly on his shoulders, and the two dragged their burden
to the bower and dashed it against the door, shouting with all their might
to those within to open it.

Windows, it must be remembered, were in those days so few and far between
that the folks inside had remained quite unaware of what was going on
without.

The door was opened cautiously enough; and out looked, to the shame of
knighthood, be it said, two or three knights who had taken shelter in the
bower with the ladies. Whatever they were going to say the ladies