"Amen!" quoth Giles o' the Bow, hoarse-voiced, "so do they all lie dead within the green!"
"Save one!" said Roger.
"But he sore wounded!" quoth Walkyn.
"How!" cried the friar aghast, "have ye indeed slain Sir Pertolepe's foresters?"
"Nineteen!" nodded Roger, grimly.
"Alas!" cried the friar, "may God save the poor folk hereabouts, for now will Sir Pertolepe wreak vengeance dire upon them."
"Then," said Beltane, "then must I have word with Sir Pertolepe."
Now when he said this, Black Roger stared agape and even the archer's tongue failed him for once; but Walkyn smiled and gripped his axe.
"Art mad, tall brother!" cried Giles at length, "Sir Pertolepe would hang thee out of hand, or throw thee to his dogs!"
"Lord," said Roger, "Sir Pertolepe hath ten score men-at-arms in
Garthlaxton, beside bowmen and foresters."