“Thieves!” he said shortly. “Ride for it.”
So they began to gallop, and their horses, although somewhat jaded, being very swift, passed in front of these men before they could regain the road. The band shouted to them to surrender, and, as they did not stop, loosed a few arrows and pursued them, while they galloped down the hillside on to a plain which separated them from more hills also clothed with cork-trees. This plain was about three miles wide and boggy in places. Still they kept well ahead of the brigands, as they took them to be, hoping that they would give up the pursuit or lose sight of them amongst the trees. As they entered these, however, to their dismay they saw, drawn up in front of them and right across the road, another band of rough-looking men, perhaps twelve in all.
“Trap!” said Peter. “We must ride through them—it is our only chance,” at the same time spurring his horse to the front and drawing his sword.
Choosing the spot where their line was weakest he dashed through it easily enough but next second heard a cry from Margaret, and pulled his horse round to see that her mare had fallen, and that she and Castell were in the hands of the thieves. Indeed, already rough men had hold of her, and one of them was trying to tear the veil from her face. With a shout of rage Peter charged them, and struck so fierce a blow that his sword cut through the fellow’s helmet into his skull, so that he fell down, dying or dead, Margaret’s veil still in his hand.
Then they rushed at him, five or six of them, and, although he wounded another man, dragged him from his horse, and, as he lay upon his back, sprang at him to finish him before he could rise. Already their knives and swords were over him, and he was making his farewells to life, when he heard a voice command them to desist and bind his arms. This was quickly done, and he was suffered to rise from the ground to see before him, not Morella, as he half expected, but a man clad in fine armour beneath his rough cloak, evidently an officer of rank. “What kind of a Moor are you,” he asked, “who dare to kill the soldiers of the Holy Hermandad in the heart of the King’s country?” and he pointed to the dead man.
“I am not a Moor,” answered Peter in his rough Spanish. “I am a Christian escaped from Granada, and I cut down that man because he was trying to insult my betrothed, as you would have done, Señor. I did not know that he was a soldier of the Hermandad; I thought him a common thief of the hills.”
This speech, or as much as he could understand of it, seemed to please the officer, but before he could answer, Castell said:
“Sir Officer, the señor is an Englishman, and does not speak your language well—”
“He uses his sword well, anyhow,” interrupted the captain, glancing at the dead soldier’s cloven helm and head.
“Yes, Sir, he is of your trade and, as the scar upon his face shows, has fought in many wars. Sir, what he tells you is true. We are Christian captives escaped from Granada and flying to Seville with my daughter, to whom I pray you to do no harm, to ask for the protection of their gracious Majesties, and to find a passage back to England.”