of coat-armor, and should die by some
other weapon than thine."

"As you will," said Aylward, with a clouded brow. "I have been told that
in the late wars many a French prince and baron has not been too proud
to take his death wound from an English yeoman's shaft, and that nobles
of England have been glad enough to stand by and see it done."

Nigel shook his head sadly. "It is sooth you say, archer, and indeed it
is no new thing, for that good knight Richard of the Lion Heart met his
end in such a lowly fashion, and so also did Harold the Saxon. But this
is a private matter, and I would not have you draw your bow against
him. Neither can I ride at him myself, for he is weak in body, though
dangerous in spirit. Therefore, we will go upon our way, since there is
neither profit nor honor to be gained, nor any hope of advancement."

Aylward, having unstrung his bow, had remounted his horse during this
conversation, and the two rode swiftly past the little squat Chapel of
the Martyr and over the brow of the hill. From the summit they looked
back. The injured archer lay upon the ground, with several of his
comrades gathered in a knot around him. Others ran aimlessly up the
hill, but were already far behind. The leader sat motionless upon his
horse, and as he saw them look back he raised his hand and shrieked his
curses at them. An instant later the curve of the ground had hid them
from view. So, amid love and hate, Nigel bade adieu to the home of his
youth.

And now the comrades were journeying upon that old, old road which runs
across the south of England and yet never turns toward London, for the
good reason that the place was a poor hamlet when first the road was
laid. From Winchester, the Saxon capital, to Canterbury, the holy city
of Kent, ran that ancient highway, and on from Canterbury to the narrow
straits where, on a clear day, the farther shore can be seen. Along this
track as far back as history can trace the metals of the west have been
carried and passed the pack-horses which bore the goods which Gaul sent
in exchange. Older than the Christian faith and older than the Romans,
is the old road. North and south are the woods and the marshes, so
that only on the high dry turf of the chalk land could a clear track be
found. The Pilgrim's Way, it still is called; but the pilgrims were the
last who ever trod it, for it was already of immemorial age before the
death of Thomas a Becket gave a new reason why folk shoul