His heart was not
in the business, for these clerical courts were not popular, and
everyone had a tender heart for the fallen fortunes of the house
of Loring and wished well to its young heir.
"Come, young sir, you have caused scathe enough," said he. "Stand
forth and give yourself up!"
"Come and fetch me, good fellow," said Nigel, with a dangerous
smile.
The archer ran in. There was a rasp of steel, a blade flickered
like a swift dart of flame, and the man staggered back, with blood
running down his forearm and dripping from his fingers. He wrung
them and growled a Saxon oath.
"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.
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