A single man-at-arms came cantering over the grass, crouching in the saddle and looking back nervously over his shoulder. Croquart swore at him as he pulled up his horse.
“Hallo, cur!—where is Guymon?”
The man straightened in the saddle and pointed towards Josselin.
“A fellow ran at us out of the woods, struck down Guymon with his spear—”
“And you used the spurs.”
The man agreed, as though Croquart’s anger was preferable to the stranger’s spear.
“Well, what next?”
“The man turned back into the woods, captain.”
“What! He did not follow you?”
“No.”