“You shall not count me to be guarded, but to guard,” said Robin, stoutly.
“Well said,” replied Dr Thorpe.
“Truly, good Doctor, on my word,” interposed Philippa, “but you shall not count me as a sely woman. I have handled a matchlock afore now, and I can knock down a man an’ I have hold of a poker. I stand to the front, an’ it like you.”
“Well said, brave heart!” answered he. “So do.”
So set, they awaited the death that might be at hand, and prayed to God to guard them. All were brave enough but Dickon, and he shivered like an aspen leaf.
“Thou white-livered (our ancestors believed literally that cowards had white livers) dolt!” cried Dr Thorpe sharply, and took the matchlock out of his hands. “Go behind for a child as thou art.”
“And give me his matchlock,” said Philippa.
“Take it,” he answered. “You are ten times over the man that he is.”
Slowly they heard the tramp of feet advancing nearer and nearer. All were silent now. The feet gained the ridge of the hill—they crossed it—they came forward on the road. All at once Avery, who was next that side, threw down his matchlock with a shout.
“Forward, friends!” cried he triumphantly. “These are no rebels—these are the King’s Majesty’s troops. See you not the royal lions flying at the van? God be with the armies of England!”