Going to do Matthew's bidding, I stretched out my hand to lay hold of the arrow sticking in the tree; but ere my fingers touched it I stopped short with a cry of joy.
"Lord love you, master, what's the matter?" cries Matthew.
"Look," says I, pointing to the head of the arrow buried in the soft bark. "Do you see this shred of black lace bound to the shaft?"
"Ay," says he, "and 'tis the first time I ever saw an arrow feathered in that fashion."
"'Tis part of my dear lady's gown," cries I, snatching the arrow away, and pressing the lace to my lips, with a mad hope that she lived, and that this was a token sent by her.
Another arrow, being the fifth thus discharged, shot into the trunk close by the head of the fourth; and now I gave another joyful shout, for round the head of this was bound a little lock of hair that shone in the sun like burnished copper.
"'Tis a lock of her dear hair. My dearest lady, my darling lives! she lives—she lives!" says I, with the same extravagant joy as before. "'Tis a message from her."
"That may be," says Matthew cheerily; "but one thing is certain—the Ingas mean us no harm; for they might have riddled us like so many colanders by this, had they been so minded, for all our care."
Casting our eyes about, we now spied a young Inga (as naked as Adam) standing beside a tree at about a dozen yards off, with a bow in his hand, and a sheaf of arrows, in a long wallet, slung to his shoulder. He cried out something in his own tongue, upon which Matthew (who had got the language by one of his wives) turns to me and says:
"I don't know what this fellow means, master, for he wants to know which of us saved his wife from the Portugals. However, 'tis no good to stand nice about fibs at this time, so I shall tell him you did."