nting towards
the barrow.

"He could not have gone far, sir bailiff," cried one of the archers,
unslinging his bow. "He is in hiding somewhere, for he knew well, black
paynim as he is, that our horses' four legs could outstrip his two."

"Then we shall have him," said the other. "It shall never be said,
whilst I am bailiff of Southampton, that any waster, riever, draw-latch
or murtherer came scathless away from me and my posse. Leave that rogue
lying. Now stretch out in line, my merry ones, with arrow on string, and
I shall show you such sport as only the King can give. You on the left,
Howett, and Thomas of Redbridge upon the right. So! Beat high and low
among the heather, and a pot of wine to the lucky marksman."

As it chanced, however, the searchers had not far to seek. The negro had
burrowed down into his hiding-place upon the barrow, where he might have
lain snug enough, had it not been for the red gear upon his head. As
he raised himself to look over the bracken at his enemies, the staring
color caught the eye of the bailiff, who broke into a long screeching
whoop and spurred forward sword in hand. Seeing himself discovered,
the man rushed out from his hiding-place, and bounded at the top of
his speed down the line of archers, keeping a good hundred paces to the
front of them. The two who were on either side of Alleyne bent their
bows as calmly as though they were shooting at the popinjay at the
village fair.

"Seven yards windage, Hal," said one, whose hair was streaked with gray.

"Five," replied the other, letting loose his string. Alleyne gave a gulp
in his throat, for the yellow streak seemed to pass through the man; but
he still ran forward.

"Seven, you jack-fool," growled the first speaker, and his bow twanged
like a harp-string. The black man sprang high up into the air, and
shot out both his arms and his legs, coming down all a-sprawl among
the heather. "Right under the blade bone!" quoth the archer, sauntering
forward for his arrow.

"The old hound is the best when all is said," quoth the bailiff of
Southampton, as they made back for the roadway. "That means a quart of
the best malmsey in Southampton this very night, Matthew Atwood. Art
sure that he is dead?"

"Dead as Pontius Pilate, worshipful sir."

"It is well. Now, as to the other knave. There are trees and to spare
over yonder, but we have scarce leisure to make for them. Draw thy
sword, Thomas of Redbridge, and hew me his head from hi