There they stood, held on a leash, and
casting many a wondering frightened glance over their shoulders at
the preparations which were being made behind them.
Old Bartholomew and the big Yorkshireman had stepped out of the
ranks and stood side by side each with his strung bow in his left
hand and a single arrow in his right. With care they had drawn on
and greased their shooting-gloves and fastened their bracers.
They plucked and cast up a few blades of grass to measure the
wind, examined every small point of their tackle, turned their
sides to the mark, and Widened their feet in a firmer stance.
From all sides came chaff and counsel from their comrades.
"A three-quarter wind, bowyer!" cried one. "Aim a body's breadth
to the right!"
"But not thy body's breadth, bowyer," laughed another. "Else may
you be overwide."
"Nay, this wind will scarce turn a well-drawn shaft," said a third.
"Shoot dead upon him and you will be clap in the clout."
"Steady, Ned, for the good name of the Dales," cried a Yorkshireman.
"Loose easy and pluck not, or I am five crowns the poorer man."
"A week's pay on Bartholomew!" shouted another. "Now, old
fat-pate, fail me not!"
"Enough, enough! Stint your talk!" cried the old bowman, Wat of
Carlisle. "Were your shafts as quick as your tongues there would
be no facing you. Do you shoot upon the little one, Bartholomew,
and you, Ned, upon the other.
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