“No,” said the other, swaggering up; “you’ve fired for your pleasure; now, perhaps, you’ll have to fire for ours.”
“My lads,” said Gil, quietly, “I am not in a quarrelling humour to-day. Go to thy master, or maybe his livery may get sullied in the Pool.”
“Insolent!” cried one.
“What does he mean?” cried the other. “Stop, I say; keep your doublet off till Sir Mark gives you leave to put it on.”
He made a snatch at the garment Wat was handing to his leader, wondering the while how Gil could be so calm, but as the fellow snatched at the sleeve Gil’s open hand dealt him so tremendous a blow in the chest that he staggered backwards; and, as his companion leaped at Gil to help his comrade, Wat thrust out a foot and sent him sprawling on the ground.
The two men leaped up, whipped out their swords, and made at Gil, who half drew his own weapon, but thrust it back with a contemptuous “Pish!” and, as the first man made a pass at him, he struck it aside with his open hand, closed with his assailant, disarmed him, and snapped his sword in two.
The other was more cautious, but Gil watched his opportunity, tore his sword from his hand, and served it the same.
Blind with rage, the two men drew their daggers, and made at him again; but by this time Gil’s men had closed round, and Sir Mark’s followers were seized and disarmed.
“What shall we do with them, captain?” said one of the sailors; but Gil had walked away in disgust at the treatment he received from the founder, and the order came from Wat Kilby—
“Pitch ’em overboard, my lads, into the Pool.”