own life. Of my hand her father will demand her when
he comes again. Shall we men of Wales give right cause to the English to
call us murderers, traitors, cowards? Take my life if you will, take it
a thousand times over if you will, it is only over my dead body that you
will reach that child."

"Down with him -- traitor to the cause! He is sold to the English! He is
no countryman of ours! Spare him not! He is worthy of death! Down with
every Welshman who bands not with those who would uphold his country's
cause!"

Such were the shouts which rent the air as the meaning of Wendot's words
made itself understood. As for the brave lad himself, he had plucked the
arrow from his neck, and now stood boldly on guard, resolved to husband
his strength and keep on the defensive only, hoping thus to gain time
until Griffeth and the armed men should arrive.

He had all the advantage of the position; but his foes were strong men,
and came on thick and fast one after another, till it seemed as if the
lad might be forced backwards by sheer weight and pressure. But Wendot
was no novice at the use of arms: as his third foe fell upon him with
heavy blows of his weighted axe, he stepped backwards a pace, and let
the blows descend harmlessly upon the solid rock of the arch; until the
man, disgusted at the non-success of his endeavours to tempt his
adversary out of his defended position, threw away his blunted axe, and
was about to draw his sword for a thrust, when the boy sprang like
lightning upon him, and buried his poniard in his heart.

Over went the man like a log, almost dragging Wendot with him as he
fell, and before the youth had had time to recover himself, he had
received a deep gash in his sword arm from the foe who pressed on next,
and who made a quick dash to try to get possession of the vantage ground
of the arch.

But Wendot staggered back as if with weakness, let his adversary dash
through the arch after him; and then, hurling himself upon him as he
passed through, pushed him sheer off the ledge on the other side into
the yawning gulf beneath.

The comrades of this last victim, who had just sent up a shout of
triumph, now changed their note, and it became a yell of rage. Wendot
was back in his old vantage ground, wounded by several arrows, spent by
blows, and growing faint from loss of blood, but dauntless and resolute
as ever, determined to sell his life dearly, and hold out as long as he
had breath left in him, soone