The man hesitated, for he saw that their foes were many and no common robbers, but his master drew his sword and spurred his beast, so he must do likewise. In twenty seconds they were among them, and some one commanded them to yield. Sir John rushed at the fellow, and, rising in his stirrups, cut him down. He fell all of a heap and lay still in the snow, which grew crimson about him. One came at Jeffrey, who turned his horse so that the blow missed, then took his weight upon the point of his sword, so that this man, too, fell down and lay in the snow, moving feebly.
The rest, thinking this greeting too warm for them, swung round and vanished again among the thorns.
“Now ride for it,” said Jeffrey.
“I cannot,” answered Sir John. “One of those knaves has hurt my mare,” and he pointed to blood that ran from a great gash in the beast’s foreleg, which it held up piteously.
“Take mine,” said Jeffrey; “I’ll dodge them afoot.”
“Never, man! To the willows; we will hold our own there;” and, springing from the wounded beast, which tried to hobble after them, but could not, for its sinews were cut, he ran to the shelter of the trees, followed by Jeffrey on his horse.
“Who are these rogues?” he asked.
“The Abbot’s men-at-arms,” answered Jeffrey. “I saw the face of him I spitted.”
Now Sir John’s jaw dropped.
“Then we are sped, friend, for they dare not let us go. Cicely dreams well.”