The figure with the bow stood above him on a low bank where the yews ended and the fern and gorse began. It was motionless save for a slight turning of the head from side to side, and wholly intent upon scanning the heath beyond. Fulk drew a deep breath, gathered himself, and sprang.
The figure whipped round with a sharp cry. A wave of Fulk’s arm knocked aside the stabbing point of the horn end of the bow. The two black shapes grappled, one striving to break away, the other to hold its quarry. Someone’s foot slipped in a rabbit hole, and the two came down the bank in a tangle into the dense shade under the yews.
A cloud came over the moon, and out yonder a fat hart had risen and was galloping over the heath. Fulk, on top in the tussle, had a grip of a wrist whose hand had darted for a girdle knife. The figure under him ceased to struggle.
“Caught, you lousel!”
The voice that answered him had a fine edge of anger.
“Let me go, you clown. Have you no more wit than——”
Fulk sprang back and up.
“What!”
“Fool, let me but get my knife.”
“Blood of St. Thomas—a woman!”