“Now, master, we are alone,” said Grey Dick. “Set your shoulders against mine and let us die a death that these dogs of Avignon will remember.”
“Ay, ay!” answered Hugh. “But don’t overreach, Dick, ‘tis ever the archer’s fault.”
The mob closed in on them, then rolled back like water from a rock, leaving some behind. Again they closed in and again rolled back.
“Bring bows!” they cried, widening out. “Bring bows and shoot them down.”
“Ah!” gasped Dick, “that is a game two can play, now that I have arm room.”
Almost before the words had left his lips the great black bow he bore was out and strung. Next instant the shafts began to rush, piercing all before them, till at the third arrow those in front of him melted away, save such as would stir no more. Only now missiles began to come in answer from this side and from that, although as yet none struck them.
“Unstring your bow, Dick, and let us charge,” said Hugh. “We have no other chance save flight. They’ll pelt us under.”
Dick did not seem to hear. At least he shot on as one who was not minded to die unavenged. An arrow whistled through Hugh’s cap, lifting it from his head, and another glanced from the mail on his shoulder. He ground his teeth with rage, for now none would come within reach of his long sword.
“Good-bye, friend Dick,” he said. “I die charging,” and with a cry of “A Cressi! A Cressi!” he sprang forward.
One leap and Dick was at his side, who had only bided to sheath his bow. The mob in front melted away before the flash of the white sword and the gleam of the grey axe. Still they must have fallen, for their pursuers closed in behind them like hunting hounds when they view the quarry, and there were none to guard their backs. But once more the shrill voice cried: