That was the first stroke. The Abbot was now in the midst of us. The archers, seeing that their prisoners were only an encumbrance to their movements, loosed the ropes that bound us from their saddles. You may be sure that Charles and I, and the two captive archers made for the side of the road as fast as we were able so that we might not only be out of danger but might view a fight that promised enough of excitement.
The Abbot spun the horse about. One of the men who was nearest him realized that neither arrow nor dagger could wound a man who was so finely protected, raised himself in his stirrups. He then threw himself with all his weight at his opponent. It was his intention to thus overcome him and drag him to the earth. If they once could pounce upon him they could pummel him to death, or, what was just as good, could bind him and lead him off, their prisoner.
But this fellow had counted without a knowledge of the skill and adroitness of his foe. No sooner had he thrown himself forward when the Abbot bent his elbow into a kind of a crook. The sharp point of his armor was opposite the archer’s throat. With a jerk the Abbot drove it forward. It caught the man hard like the thrust of a pike or lance. He uttered a low moaning cry and toppled, like the captain, in a heap to the road.
From where we were standing we saw the Abbot wheel about. Once more he dug his spurs into the horse and rode back a dozen paces. Here he turned and faced the others who were left.
“He,” he cried pointing to the man who had just fallen, “is the second. Who of you will be the third?”
The men looked questioningly at each other. One of them growled and said something about their fallen captain. I heard the words “disgrace” and “punishment if we return.” They glanced at us and frowned and then, although I knew it was against their wills, they drew up once more in a kind of line and faced the Abbot.
Each of the archers drew taut his bow. The Abbot urged the horse forward with a touch of the spur. Eight arrows flew as straight as they could go. The eight of them crashed against the steel of the armor. A few were turned aside and sped on a little further but the most of them struck with a ring and dropped to the ground.
Like a flash the archers fastened each another arrow in his bow. Then of a sudden one of them sang out, “Kill the horse! We can get him when he is dismounted on the road!”
The Abbot was coming on. At the sound of the man’s voice he pulled in hard and rose in the saddle.
“Touch him if you dare!” he cried and his voice rang out like a trumpet. “For every drop of his blood that’s spilled, I’ll roast one of you alive!”