"Hither cometh a Norman squad!" suddenly interrupted the missionary, getting ready his pole-ax. "Thy spear, my boy! Be on guard! They are taking us for enemies without question."
"I guess we will have to take them, then," said Ned. "There are only four of them. Here goes!"
He spurred his horse forward as he spoke, but it was not to meet genuine Norman men-at-arms. These fellows were only Breton marauders, armoured imperfectly and mounted on ponies. They came dashing forward irregularly instead of charging together.
"I hate to kill a man," muttered Ned, and he did not do so, for the foremost Breton fell from his pony with no worse harm than a spear-wound in the arm.
Ned's shield caught a sword-cut from the second assailant, and it was not repeated, for Father Brian's ax came down upon that man's helmet, and one more saddle was empty.
"Down with them!" roared the valiant missionary. "Thou hast laid one more upon the sand!"
"The spear didn't go through his corselet half an inch," said Ned, "but there he is."
The fourth Breton exchanged a few blows with some skill, but Father Brian was too much for him, and his pony, also, was quickly riderless.