eet
and the knights behind them waved their weapons in the air, while
one tremendous shout of warlike joy carried their defiance to the
approaching enemy. Then there fell such a silence that the pawing of the
horses or the jingle of their harness struck loud upon the ear, until
amid the hush there rose a low deep roar like the sound of the tide upon
the beach, ever growing and deepening as the host of France drew near.

XXVI. HOW NIGEL FOUND HIS THIRD DEED

Four archers lay behind a clump of bushes ten yards in front of the
thick hedge which shielded their companions. Amid the long line of
bowmen those behind them were their own company, and in the main the
same who were with Knolles in Brittany. The four in front were their
leaders: old Wat of Carlisle, Ned Widdington the red-headed Dalesman,
the bald bowyer Bartholomew, and Samkin Alyward, newly rejoined after a
week's absence. All four were munching bread and apples, for Aylward had
brought in a full haversack and divided them freely amongst his
starving comrades. The old Borderer and the Yorkshireman were gaunt and
hollow-eyed with privation, while the bowyer's round face had fallen in
so that the skin hung in loose pouches under his eyes and beneath his
jaws.

Behind them lines of haggard, wolfish men glared through the underwood,
silent and watchful save that they burst into a fierce yelp of welcome
when Chandos and Nigel galloped up, sprang from their horses and took
their station beneath them. All along the green fringe of bowmen might
be seen the steel-clad figures of knights and squires who had pushed
their way into the front line to share the fortune of the archers.

"I call to mind that I once shot six ends with a Kentish woldsman at
Ashford--" began the Bowyer.

"Nay, nay, we have heard that story!" said old Wat impatiently. "Shut
thy clap, Bartholomew, for it is no time for redeless gossip! Walk down
the line, I pray you, and see if there be no frayed string, nor broken
nock nor loosened whipping to be mended."

The stout bowyer passed down the fringe of bowmen, amidst a running fire
of rough wit. Here and there a bow was thrust out at him through the
hedge for his professional advice.

"Wax your heads!" he kept crying. "Pass down the wax-pot and wax your
heads. A waxed arrow will pass where a dry will be held. Tom Beverley,
you jack-fool! where is your bracer-guard? Your string will flay your
arm ere you reach your up-shot this day. And yo