"Content you, brother, 'twas nought," said Giles bending above his cooking, "the kiss of a pike-head i' the thick o' the arm—no more."
"Yet it must be looked to—"
"I did it, brother, as I shoot—that is to say I did it most excellent well: 'twill be healed within the week."
"How then—art leech as well as bowman?"
"Quite as well, brother. When I was a monk I learned two good things, videlicit: never to argue with those in authority over me, and to heal the hurts of those that did. So, by my skill in herbs and leechcraft, Roger, having a hole in his arm, recks not of it—behold here he cometh, and Walkyn too, and Laus Deo! with a trout! Now shall we feast like any pampered prelate."
So when Beltane had stripped and bathed him in the brook, they presently sat down, all four together, and ate and talked and laughed right merrily, the while lark and thrush and blackbird carolled lustily far and near.
"Now eat, brothers," cried the bowman, full-mouthed, "eat and spare not, as I do, for to-day I smell the battle from afar: Ho! Ho! the noise of captains and the shouting! Yesterday were we heroes, to-day must we be gods—yet cautious gods, for, mark me, I have but twelve shafts remaining, and with twelve shafts can but promise ye a poor twelve lives."
But now came Roger wistful-eyed, and with belt a-swing in his hand.
"Master," quoth he, "last night did we four rescue twelve. Now I'm fain to know if for these twelve I may cut twelve notches from my belt, or must we share their lives betwixt us and I count but three?"
"Three?" laughed Giles, "Oho—out upon thee, Rogerkin! Our lord here claimeth six, since he the rescue planned, next, I claim three, since but for my goodly shooting ye all had died, then hath Walkyn two, since he saved thee from the fishes, which leaveth thee—one. Quod erat demonstrandum!"