"How, knaves," he panted, "art balked? Come, try me in the front. My back you have missed."
They circled him warily, a hangdog crew of landless men and wastrels, some minus ears or hands, others with slit noses, several cruelly branded. All were clothed in woodland green, and each wielded a long, sinister knife. There were eight or nine of them, but they seemed none too eager to come to close quarters.
"I say the Norman dog is armoured," repeated the man who had leaped up behind Hugh. "Why waste lives on him? A clothyard shaft will do the trick, and no blood spilled."
"Ay," returned the fellow who had ordered the slitting of Hugh's throat, "and if he dies by the arrow we shall have the Sheriff and the King's Verderers out to take vengeance on us. The greenwood will be too hot for comfort, my word on't. A knife, now—that's another matter. One knife is the same as the next, and there be a-many weasand-slitters are not killers of the King's deer."
"I like it not," objected a third fellow. "I came not here to be killed in a stranger's quarrel."
"We came to earn good ale and bread," returned the leader. "One charge and he falls."
They strung out and advanced cautiously. At a cluck from the lips of their chief they came together in a group, and whilst Hugh's attention was diverted by this manoeuvre, one of them made a quick dash, ducking and aiming to strike under his guard. But Hugh saw the trick and cut downward, severing the man's head from his shoulders. The rest of the band recoiled.
"Hast had enough?" demanded Hugh.
They yelped at him like so many wolves.
"What said I?" howled their leader. "We must all at him together. Every blade, lads. And if some die, why, there will be more ale for the rest."