But it soon proved that I was right. Within a few minutes another piece of white cloth larger than the first fluttered among the trees. Regardless of the leader’s warning I walked to the middle of the floor. The old landlord came into view tottering and filled with fear. His jaw was twisting like a leaf spinning in the wind. He put one foot forward and then half turned as though he would draw back. When he got half across the road, he broke into a shifting run.
“A truce!” he cried holding the white cloth before him.
“What would you have?” asked the leader from behind the table.
“You’ve killed two of them already,” said the landlord. “They want to let you know that there’ll be a score of their comrades here within the hour.” He hesitated. The old crafty smile broke over his face. “If you give in, they’ll do you no hurt but send you back to Normandy where you belong.”
“Is that all?” demanded the leader.
“I’ve come to save my house,” was the next move.
“Well?”
“You see,” went on the old man, “if you don’t give in, they’ll burn it down about your ears.”
“Oh, ho!” replied the leader with a short laugh. “So that’s the tune now, is it? Well. Let them.” Here he held out his bow before the old man’s eyes. “Do you see this?” he demanded. “This bow has drawn the heart’s blood of half a hundred of their countrymen. It’s still athirst for more. Go back and ask them if they are willing to be the next.”
The landlord stood twisting the white rag between his skinny hands. He looked up sharply and saw me peering eagerly over the leader’s shoulder.