Below the hill
was a marshy plain, studded with great Druidic stones, some
prostrate, some erect, some bearing others across their tops like
the huge doors of some vanished building. A path ran through the
marsh with green rushes as a danger signal on either side of it.
Across this path many of the huge stones were lying, but the white
horse cleared them in its stride and Pommers followed close upon
his heels. Then came a mile of soft ground where the lighter
weight again drew to the front, but it ended in a dry upland and
once again Nigel gained. A sunken road crossed it, but the white
cleared it with a mighty spring, and again the yellow followed.
Two small hills lay before them with a narrow gorge of deep bushes
between. Nigel saw the white horse bounding chest-deep amid the
underwood.
Next instant its hind legs were high in the air, and the rider had
been shot from its back. A howl of triumph rose from amidst the
bushes, and a dozen wild figures armed with club and with spear,
rushed upon the prostrate man.
"A moi, Anglais, a moi!" cried a voice, and Nigel saw the young
rider stagger to his feet, strike round him with his sword, and
then fall once more before the rush of his assailants.
There was a comradeship among men of gentle blood and bearing
which banded them together against all ruffianly or unchivalrous
attack. These rude fellows were no soldiers.
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