It was time. Stephen Bassett was all but spent, and Hugh, trying his best to shield him, was pressed backwards until, to his terror, he found himself close to the hairy form of the bear. But the instant the knights appeared the throng opened and fled, except the bear-leaders, who, hampered by their unwieldy animal, prepared to put the best face they could on the matter.
For the first few minutes, indeed, there was nothing but trying to quiet the horses, frightened out of their senses by finding themselves in close neighbourhood with the bear, and this gave time for Hugh to look, and to cry out joyfully—
“Father, it is Sir Thomas de Trafford! He will see justice done.”
“How now, my masters?” cried the knight, a dark-haired, bright-eyed man with a red face. “What means this brawling?”
“Your worship,” said Dick-o’-the-Hill, wiping his face with the back of his hand, “these knaves have been taken in the very act of stealing.”
“Is that you, Dick Simpkins?” said Sir Thomas, with a laugh. “I might have guessed that heads could not be broken without your having a hand in the breaking. But the King will have none of this violence, and the Master of the Hospital will have thee up for it, neck and crop.”
Dick, looking somewhat sheep-faced at this view of his conduct, was yet going to reply, when his cousin Matthew pushed forward.
“Hearken not to him, your worship,” he began; “he is an ignorant though a well-meaning knave. But I humbly bid your worship take notice that these men be the culprits who have stolen our property, and, when we would have reclaimed it, set upon us, and were like to have killed us.”
“Killed us forsooth!” muttered Dick, stirred to anger at last.
”—Had your worship not come to our rescue. And as witness, knowing all the circumstances—none better—I claim, if they are put upon their trial, to take my place as one of the twelve jurors. It is a case of flagrant delict.”