“What is the old fox at? I mislike this silence.”
Suddenly he heard Martin Valliant give a strange, sharp cry.
“Look!”
He stood rigid, his eyes shining like glass in the sunlight, his forehead all knotted up.
Swartz looked over the battlements, and uttered a robust and honest oath.
“What damnable fool is that?”
Away down the valley young Nigel Blount and Mellis had ridden out from the woods and were crossing the open grassland toward the mere, with Nigel’s men straggling as they pleased half a furlong behind them. Young Blount was riding gallantly enough, making his horse cut capers, while he showed what manner of man he was in the saddle. His men were laughing and talking, their bows unstrung, not one of them troubling to keep watch.
“Peacock! Ape! Shout, man, shout! There is a trap set here, if I am not much mistaken.”
Martin raised his sword, and flashed it to and fro. He saw Mellis draw rein, and knew that her eyes were on him. He pointed toward the beech wood, but even if she understood his warning it came too late.