Before I could glance about the scrivener had straightened himself. With one of his springs he came hurtling through the air. The fellow had half turned when he saw his companion fall and was not entirely on his guard. The scrivener’s heels struck him like a weight in the chest. As though his legs were cut away from under him, he flew back and rolled over to the foot of the tree.
“Quick!” cried my companion.
I needed no urging. As fast as my anxious fingers could manage, I undid the fastenings that bound the quiver of arrows to my fellow’s shoulder. Then I snatched up the bow and turned to see what the next move would be.
The scrivener had done as I had done, only with more dispatch. He stepped back and laid an arrow in the bow.
“Up with you!” he cried. “Back to your master, De Marsac, and say that the highwayman of Tours sends him his compliments. Tell him that we shall meet him further down the road on the way to Angers. Tell him to keep a keen edge on his sword for when we meet again the one or the other of us shall die!”
I never saw a man fly before an enemy so quickly. Before I could wink he had turned and was soon hidden among the trees.
“That’s one of them,” muttered my companion. He pointed to the man whom I had felled. He was rolling over and trying to raise himself on his elbow. “He’s safe enough where he lies,” he continued. “By the time he has his wits again, we shall be out of reach.”
“Where are we going now, master scrivener?” I asked.
“I’m not sure, my lad,” he said. He pointed to the sun which stood over our heads. “First we’ll eat what is left of our breakfast. We’ll go ahead slowly for a while. When it gets dark I shall make a quiet visit to the inn.”
