"But remember the letters of the Guises and the Valois,—he is our enemy."
"No Scotsman is my enemy to-day," exclaimed the reckless young lord; "follow me, sirs! I would rather share the death of yonder gallant lad, than stand idly by and see it."
Kilmaurs and his three companions came along the hillside at full speed, and, with levelled lances, burst into the fray just as Florence had been struck from his saddle, and had placed his horse between himself and the swords of the men-at-arms. Thrice a demi-lancer of Sir Ralf Vane's band had made a deadly thrust at him; but thrice the weapon had been parried by the friendly sword of Edward Shelly, who had just joined the mêlée, for the same kind purpose that had brought hither Lord Kilmaurs.
"Mount, Fawside," exclaimed the Englishman, keeping between Florence and the Boulogners; "mount while there is time, and leave me to deal with my Lord of Kilmaurs,—another day will serve your turn and mine."
"Thanks," said Florence breathlessly, as he leaped on his horse; "for this good deed I strike not at you to-day."
"But to-morrow——"
"And why to-morrow, Shelly?—alas, I have no one left to live or fight for now; but to-morrow be it, for I warned you to avoid Scottish ground."
"And in good sooth a few of us find its air unwholesome for our English lungs to-day."
While Florence drew off for a few minutes to recover his breath, and from the exhaustion of the late encounter, a rough and desperate conflict took place between Shelly and Kilmaurs, whose former quarrel gave acrimony to their hate and energy to their hands.
"Thou traitor and bondsman of Somerset!" exclaimed Shelly.