Beatrix of Clare

Two archers stepped out into the path,—shafts notched and bows up.
A word with your worship, said one.
The Knight whirled around.
A word with your worship, greeted him from the rear.
He glanced quickly to each side.
A word with your worship, met him there.
He shrugged his shoulders and sat down on the limb of a fallen tree. Resistance was quite useless, with no weapon save a dagger, and no armor but silk and velvet.
The unanimity of your desires does me much honor, he said; pray proceed.
The leader lowered his bow.