"A curse on thy clumsiness, Gros Vibart! Not a drain remains."
"There is water to be had from the brook——"
"Two bow-shots away. Since thou hast caused the mischief thou canst best make amends. Off with thee, I say."
Gros Vibart grumblingly departed, leaving his comrade alternately reviling him and the luckless Gripwell. Presently the Frenchman, having exhausted his vocabulary of abuse, came to a standstill in the centre of the barn, almost underneath the planks on which the lads were lying.
Cautiously Geoffrey raised himself into a crouching posture, then unhesitatingly sprang upon the Frenchman's shoulders. Down went the man like a felled ox.
Without a moment's delay Geoffrey cut the thongs that bound Gripwell's arms and legs, and, stiff and cramped, the man-at-arms slowly rose to his feet.
"Certes! I little wot that 'twould be by thy aid, Master Geoffrey. But a truce to gossiping, for the other rogue will be here soon. Not that I had lost hope, for I meant to outwit them both. There! Now my limbs begin to feel themselves once more. Hand me thy dagger, for there's more work to be done ere we leave this place."
Meanwhile Oswald had contrived to descend from his perch, feeling stiff and weary with the partially-healed wound.
"Welcome, Arnold. But how say ye? How are we to evade the swarm of men in yonder village?"
"Time to discuss that, young sir, when we have settled with the other rascal—him I owe much for his scurvy treatment. My word! He'll pay dearly for kicking a trussed and helpless man."