He did not flinch. Dropping his reins, and driving in the spurs once more, he met them in full shock. With his left hand he hurled aside the left-hand lance, with his right he hurled his own with all his force at the right-hand foe, and saw it pass clean through the felon’s chest, while his lance-point dropped, and passed harmlessly behind his knee.
So much for lances in front. But the knight behind? Would not his sword the next moment be through his brain?
There was a clatter, a crash, and looking back Hereward saw horse and man rolling in the rut, and rolling with them Martin Lightfoot. He had already pinned the felon knight’s head against the steep bank, and, with uplifted axe, was meditating a pick at his face which would have stopped alike his love-making and his fighting.
“Hold thy hand,” shouted Hereward. “Let us see who he is; and remember that he is at least a knight.”
“But one that will ride no more to-day. I finished his horse’s going as I rolled down the bank.”
It was true. He had broken the poor beast’s leg with a blow of the axe, and they had to kill the horse out of pity ere they left.
Martin dragged his prisoner forward.
“You?” cried Hereward. “And I saved your life three days ago!”
The knight answered nothing.
“You will have to walk home. Let that be punishment enough for you,” and he turned.