Robin dragged himself up from the foot of a tree. He went slowly towards his horse, walking with no spring at the knees, his chin down upon his chest. Bertrand’s back was turned for the moment, for he was tightening his saddle-girths, that had worked slack since the morning. Robin glanced at him, with the look of a hunted thing in his eyes. He stooped, lifted up his horse’s left fore foot, and plunged the point of his poniard into the frog.
Bertrand turned to find Robin’s horse plunging and rearing, with his master hanging to the bridle.
“Hallo, lad, what’s amiss?”
Robin, fearful lest Bertrand should guess his treachery, patted the beast’s neck and coaxed him back into control.
“By the saints, Hoel is dead lame!”
He tugged at the bridle and walked the horse to and fro, gloating inwardly at the way the poor brute hobbled.
“What’s to be done?”
Bertrand marched up without a word, lifted the beast’s fore foot, and saw the bleeding hoof. His mouth hardened as he turned on Robin, grim but very quiet.
“Show me your poniard.”
The lad stared at him, his lower lip a-droop.