gear upon his head. As he raised himself to look over the
bracken at his enemies, the staring color caught the eye of the
bailiff, who broke into a long screeching whoop and spurred
forward sword in hand. Seeing himself discovered, the man rushed
out from his hiding-place, and bounded at the top of his speed
down the line of archers, keeping a good hundred paces to the
front of them. The two who were on either side of Alleyne bent
their bows as calmly as though they were shooting at the popinjay
at the village fair.

"Seven yards windage, Hal," said one, whose hair was streaked
with gray.

"Five," replied the other, letting loose his string. Alleyne
gave a gulp in his throat, for the yellow streak seemed to pass
through the man; but he still ran forward.

"Seven, you jack-fool," growled the first speaker, and his bow
twanged like a harp-string. The black man sprang high up into
the air, and shot out both his arms and his legs, coming down all
a-sprawl among the heather. "Right under the blade bone!" quoth
the archer, sauntering forward for his arrow.

"The old hound is the best when all is said," quoth the bailiff
of Southampton, as they made back for the roadway. "That means a
quart of the best malmsey in Southampton this very night, Matthew
Atwood. Art sure that he is dead?"

"Dead as Pontius Pilate, worshipful sir."