of the stranger, as of so many cavaliers
before him, had Nigel not chanced to be close upon his heels. In an
instant Pommers had burst through the group who struck at the prostrate
man, and in another two of the robbers had fallen before Nigel's sword.
A spear rang on his breastplate, but one blow shore off its head, and
a second that of him who held it. In vain they thrust at the steel-girt
man. His sword played round them like lightning, and the fierce horse
ramped and swooped above them with pawing iron-shod hoofs and eyes of
fire. With cries and shrieks they flew off to right and left amidst
the bushes, springing over boulders and darting under branches where
no horseman could follow them. The foul crew had gone as swiftly and
suddenly as it had come, and save for four ragged figures littered
amongst the trampled bushes, no sign remaining of their passing.

Nigel tethered Pommers to a thorn-bush and then turned his attention
to the injured man. The white horse had regained his feet and stood
whinnying gently as he looked down on his prostrate master. A heavy
blow, half broken by his sword, had beaten him down and left a great raw
bruise upon his forehead. But a stream gurgled through the gorge, and
a capful of water dashed over his face brought the senses back to the
injured man. He was a mere stripling, with the delicate features of a
woman, and a pair of great violet-blue eyes which looked up presently
with a puzzled stare into Nigel's face.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Ah yes! I call you to mind. You are the young
Englishman who chased me on the great yellow horse. By our Lady of
Rocamadour whose vernicle is round my neck! I could not have believed
that any horse could have kept at the heels of Charlemagne so long. But
I will wager you a hundred crowns, Englishman, that I lead you over a
five-mile course."

"Nay," said Nigel, "we will wait till you can back a horse ere we talk
of racing it. I am Nigel of Tilford, of the family of Loring, a squire
by rank and the son of a knight. How are you called, young sir?"

"I also am a squire by rank and the son of a knight. I am Raoul de la
Roche Pierre de Bras, whose father writes himself Lord of Grosbois, a
free vavasor of the noble Count of Toulouse, with the right of fossa
and of furca, the high justice, the middle and the low." He sat up and
rubbed his eyes. "Englishman, you have saved my life as I would have
saved yours, had I seen such yelping dogs set upon a man of