Then came another stir in the crowd, and one came pushing through the press of people and soldiery to come near to the scaffold.
“I pray you, Will, before you die, take leave of all your friends!” cried out the well-known voice of Much, the miller’s son.
At the word the palmer stepped back suddenly and looked to one side. The Sheriff also knew the speaker.
“Seize him!” he shouted. “‘Tis another of the crew. He is the villain cook who once did rob me of my silver plate. We’ll make a double hanging of this!”
“Not so fast, good master Sheriff,” retorted Much. “First catch your man and then hang him. But meanwhile I would like to borrow my friend of you awhile.”
And with one stroke of his keen hunting-knife he cut the bonds which fastened the prisoner’s arms, and Stutely leaped lightly from the cart.
“Treason!” screamed the Sheriff, getting black with rage. “Catch the varlets!”
So saying he spurred his horse fiercely forward, and rising in his stirrups brought down his sword with might and main at Much’s head. But his former cook dodged nimbly underneath the horse and came up on the other side, while the weapon whistled harmlessly in the air.
“Nay, Sir Sheriff!” he cried, “I must e’en borrow your sword for the friend I have borrowed.”
Thereupon he snatched the weapon deftly from the Sheriff’s hand.