A terrific scene ensued. The horses, stung by the arrows, reared, pranced, and rushed away in headlong flight down the stony entangled road; throwing their riders in most cases, or dashing their heads against the low overhanging branches of the oaks. Half the Normans were soon on the ground. The outlaws charged: the lane became a shambles, a slaughter house.
Ralph and two or three more still fought desperately, but with little hope, when there appeared the sudden vision of a grey friar, who thrust himself between the knight and Grimbeard, who were fighting with their axes.
“Hold, for the love of God! Accursed be he who strikes another blow.”
“Thou hast saved the old villain’s life, grey friar,” said mad Ralph, parrying a stroke of Grimbeard’s axe, but this was but a bootless boast, for the conflict was not one with knightly weapons, but with those of the forest. The train of Herstmonceux were but equipped for the hunt and in such weapons as they possessed the outlaws were far better versed than they, for with boar spear or hunting knife they often faced the rush of wolf or boar.
“Martin! Boy, thou hast saved the young fop.
“Dost thou yield, Norman, to ransom?”
“Yea, for I can do no better, but if this reverend young father will but stand by and see fair play, I would sooner fight it out.”
“Dead men pay no ransom, and they are not good to eat, or I might gratify thee. As it is I prefer thee alive.”
Then he cried aloud:
“Secure the prisoners. Blindfold them, then take them to the camp.”