Forester Hugh lay a
shaft to your bow!"
The man, who was one of the Abbey's lay servants, put his weight
upon his long bow and slipped the loose end of the string into the
upper notch. Then, drawing one of the terrible three-foot arrows,
steel-tipped and gaudily winged, from his waist, he laid it to the
string.
"Now draw your bow and hold it ready!" cried the furious Abbot.
"Squire Nigel, it is not for Holy Church to shed blood, but there
is naught but violence which will prevail against the violent, and
on your head be the sin. Cast down the sword which you hold in
your hand!"
"Will you give me freedom to leave your Abbey?"
"When you have abided your sentence and purged your sin."
"Then I had rather die where I stand than give up my sword."
A dangerous flame lit in the Abbot's eyes. He came of a fighting
Norman stock, like so many of those fierce prelates who, bearing a
mace lest they should be guilty of effusion of blood, led their
troops into battle, ever remembering that it was one of their own
cloth and dignity who, crosier in hand, had turned the long-drawn
bloody day of Hastings. The soft accent of the churchman was gone
and it was the hard voice of a soldier which said--
"One minute I give you, and no more. Then when I cry 'Loose!'
drive me an arrow through his body."
The shaft was fitted, the bow was bent, and the stern eyes of the
woodman were fixed on his mark.
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