“Why, I am Ralph of Herstmonceux, an unworthy aspirant to the honours of chivalry, and conceive I have full right to hunt in the Andredsweald without asking leave of any king of the vagabonds and outlaws, such as I conceive thee to be.”
“Cease thy foolery, thou Norman magpie.
“Throw down your arms, all of you. Our bows are bent; you are in our power. You are covered, one and all, by our aim.”
“Bring on your merrie men.”
Not one of the waylaid party had put arrow to bow. This may seem strange, but they had sense enough to know (as the reader may guess), that the first demonstration of hostility would bring a shower of arrows from an unseen foe upon them. That, in short, their lives were in the power of the “merrie men,” whose arrowheads and caps they could alone see peering from behind the tree trunks, and over the bank, amidst the purple heather.
What a plight!
“Give soft words,” said the old huntsman, who rode on the right hand of our friend Ralph, “or we shall be stuck with quills like porcupines.”
But Ralph was hot headed, and threw a lance at the old outlaw, giving, at the same time, the order:
“Charge up the banks, and clear the woods of the vermin.”
The dart missed Grimbeard, and immediately the deadly shower which the old man had so keenly apprehended descended upon the exposed and ill-fated group, who, for their sins, were commanded by so mad a leader.