A man in a shirt of chain mail stood upright in the bows, and a levelled cross-bow threatened them.
They gazed stupidly at the advancing terror. In forty seconds the boat was lying motionless beside them. Hyla saw many cruel, exulting, well-known faces. The monk began Latin prayers. Lisolè grasped the iron-bound box.
Suddenly Hyla became aware that a harsh voice was speaking. "We have no quarrel with you, Sir Monk, nor with your boatman. Natheless, unless you wish death, you will give that serf Hyla up to us without trouble. We are in luck to-day. We but thought to find the bodies of dead friends."
The rapid pattering Latin went on unceasingly, Hyla was lifted from the punt by strong, eager arms. A push sent the smaller vessel gliding away, he saw the distance opening out between—the ripples sparkled in the sun.
The wail of a farewell floated towards him, and then some one struck him a heavy blow upon the head, and everything flashed away.
CHAPTER XVI
"In that same conflict (woe is me!) befell,
This fatall chaunce, this dolefull accident