“Cut him down!”
Understanding that he was to be set on, Peter sprang forward and snatched the Scotchman’s sword from the ground where it had fallen, at the same time dropping his staff and drawing his dagger with the left hand. Now he was well armed, and looked so fierce and soldier-like as he faced his foes, that, although four or five blades were out, they held back. Then Peter spoke for the first time, for he knew that against so many he had no chance.
“Englishmen,” he cried in ringing tones, but without shifting his head or glance, “will you see me murdered by these Spanish dogs?”
There was a moment’s pause, then a voice behind cried:
“By God! not I,” and a brawny Kentish man-at-arms ranged up beside him, his cloak thrown over his left arm, and his sword in his right hand.
“Nor I,” said another. “Peter Brome and I have fought together before.”
“Nor I,” shouted a third, “for we were born in the same Essex hundred.”
And so it went on, until there were as many stout Englishmen at his side as there were Spaniards and Scotchmen before him.
“That will do,” said Peter, “we want no more than man to man. Look to the women, comrades behind there. Now, you murderers, if you would see English sword-play, come on, or, if you are afraid, let us go in peace.”
“Yes, come on, you foreign cowards,” shouted the mob, who did not love these turbulent and privileged guards.