The smaller peasant, more cunning, than his comrade, had run more
slowly, but with many a backward glance. He had marked his
companion's fate and had waited with keen eyes until he saw the
bowyer loose his string. At the moment he had thrown himself flat
upon the grass and had heard the arrow scream above him,--and seen
it quiver in the turf beyond. Instantly he had sprung to his feet
again and amid wild whoops and halloos from the bowmen had made
for the shelter of the wood. Now he had reached it, and ten score
good paces separated him from the nearest of his persecutors.
Surely they could not reach him here. With the tangled brushwood
behind him he was as safe as a rabbit at the mouth of his burrow.
In the joy of his heart he must needs dance in derision and snap
his fingers at the foolish men who had let him slip. He threw
back his head, howling at them like a dog, and at the instant an
arrow struck him full in the throat and laid him dead among the
bracken. There was a hush of surprised silence and then a loud
cheer burst from the archers.
"By the rood of Beverley!" cried old Wat, "I have not seen a finer
roving shaft this many a year. In my own best day I could not
have bettered it. Which of you loosed it?"
"It was Aylward of Tilford--Samkin Aylward," cried a score of
voices, and the bowman, flushed at his own fame, was pushed to the
front.
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