eagles heeled over, and down he
came.

But when they looked towards the tower again they saw a great commotion.
Men running, horses huddled together, one in red held up by one in
green. Then a riderless chestnut horse looked about him and neighed. Des
Barres gave a short cry. 'O God! They have shot King Richard between
them. Come, Savaric, we must go down.'

'Stop again,' said that other. 'Let us sweep up those assassins as we
go. There I see another thief in white.' Des Barres saw him too. 'Spur,
spur!' he called to his knights; 'follow me.' He got his line in motion,
they all galloped across the sunny slopes like a light cloud. But as
they drove forward the play was in progress; they saw it done, as it
were, in a scene. One white figure lay heaped upon the ground, another
was running by the wall towards him, furtively and bent, as the first
had come. The third actor, he of the tower, had not heard the runner,
but was still stooped over the man he had evidently killed, groping
probably for marks or papers upon him.

'Spur, spur!' cried Des Barres, and the line went rattling down. They
were not in time. The white runner was too quick for the killer of his
mate: he did, indeed, look round; but the other was upon him before he
could rise. There was a short tussle; the two rolled over and over. Then
the white-clad man got up, raised his fallen comrade, shouldered him,
and sped away into the smoke of Chaluz. When Des Barres and his friends
were within bowshot of the tower one man only was below it; and he lay
where he had been stabbed. The white-robed murderers, the living and
the dead, were lost in smoke. The King and his party were gone. Out of
the tower came Saint-Pol with his men, unarmed, bareheaded, and waited
silently in rank for Des Barres.

This one came up at a gallop. 'My prisoner, Count of Saint-Pol,' he
called out as he came; then halted his line by throwing up his hand.

'The King has been shot, Sir Guilhem,' Saint-Pol said gravely; 'not by
me. I am the King's prisoner. Take me to him, lest he die before I see
his eyes.'

'Who is that dead man of yours over there?' asked Des Barres.

'His name is Sieur Gilles de Gurdun, a knight of Normandy and enemy of
the King's, but dead (if dead he be) on the King's account. He killed
the assassin.'

'I know that very well,' says Des Barres, 'for I saw the deed, which was
a good one. I must hunt for those white-gowns. Who might they be?'

'I know nothing of the