"Who is that fellow?" Guy asked the merchant.
"He is the son of Caboche, the head of the flayers, one of the most pestilent villains in the city."
"Keep your eye on him, Tom, and when you see a chance send an arrow home."
"That armour of his is but common stuff, Master Guy; as soon as I get a chance I will send a shaft through it."
The man with a gesture of anger turned and gave instructions to a number of men, who pushed their way through the crowd, first picking up some of the fallen hammers and axes. The fate of his associate had evidently taught the horseman prudence, for as he moved away he kept his head bent down so as not to expose his face to the aim of the terrible marksman at the window. He halted a short distance away and was evidently haranguing the crowd round him, and in his vehemence raised his arm. The moment he did so Tom's bow twanged. The arrow struck him at the unprotected part under the arm-pit, and he fell headlong from his horse. Maddened with rage the crowd no longer hesitated, and again attacked the door. Just as they did so there was a roar of exultation down the street as twelve men brought up a solid gate that they had beaten in and wrenched from its hinges from a house beyond.
[Image: "TOM'S BOW TWANGED, AND THE ARROW STRUCK THE HORSEMAN UNDER THE ARM-PIT.">[
"You can shoot as you like now, Tom. I will go down and see how the men are getting on below; the mob will have the door in sooner or later."
Guy found that the men below had not wasted their time. A great pile of logs, sacks, and other materials was piled against the door, and a short distance behind stood a number of barrels of wine and heavy cases ready to be placed in position.
"Get them upstairs, Jean," Guy said; "they will make a better barricade than the furniture, which we may as well save if possible."
The nine men set to work, and in a very short time a strong barricade was formed across the top of the wide staircase.