“—and if I don’t?” he demanded.
For a second there was no answer. The Abbot sat on his horse as silent as a statue without a stir. Then, with a gesture that was more convincing than words, he said, “Did you not hear the warning of the Dwarf?”
A jar ran through us and even the captain recoiled. The Abbot had come to us straight down the road. The Dwarf, as far as we knew, was a mile or more behind us. How the two ever could have had an understanding was more than we could guess.
But the captain was not easily rebuffed.
“There are ten of us here, Sir Abbot,” he said pointing to his men. “You are but one. It is true you are clad in armor, but even at that you are taking a chance.”
The Abbot took the reins again in his hands.
“For the last time, I ask you,” he said, “will you give up your prisoners?”
The captain fairly roared.
“No!” he cried.
The Abbot clapped his spurs into the horse’s flanks. The archers raised their bows. As he came on an arrow or two struck against his armor and dropped like dead leaves to the road. He made straight for the captain. Within the space of a single breath the horses were side by side. The captain drew a dagger and leaned far forward, but the Abbot curled his fist and bent his arm. He caught his enemy alongside the jaw with a sweeping blow. The captain’s head went back with a snap. The light left his eyes and he dropped from his horse as though he had been felled with a mighty club.