Give them law until I cry the word,
then loose in your own fashion and at your own time. Are you
ready! Hola, there, Hayward, Beddington, let them run!"
The leashes were torn away, and the two men, stooping their heads,
ran madly for the shelter of the wood amid such a howl from the
archers as beaters may give when the hare starts from its form.
The two bowmen, each with his arrow drawn to the pile, stood like
russet statues, menacing, motionless, their eager eyes fixed upon
the fugitives, their bow-staves rising slowly as the distance
between them lengthened. The Bretons were half-way to the wood,
and still Old Wat was silent. It may have been mercy or it may
have been mischief, but at least the chase should have a fair
chance of life. At six score paces he turned his grizzled head at
last.
"Loose!" he cried.
At the word the Yorkshireman's bow-string twanged. It was not for
nothing that he had earned the name of being one of the deadliest
archers of the North and had twice borne away the silver arrow of
Selby. Swift and true flew the fatal shaft and buried itself to
the feather in the curved back of the long yellow-haired peasant.
Without a sound he fell upon his face and lay stone-dead upon the
grass, the one short white plume between his dark shoulders to
mark where Death had smote him.
The Yorkshireman threw his bowstave into the air and danced in
triumph, whilst his comrades roared their fierce delight in a
shout of applause, which changed suddenly into a tempest of
hooting and of laughter.
Pages:
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354