e
passing spirit. But even as he prayed, it was plain that his mind was
still divided, and he kept ever an eye upon the corner of the wood from
which the shot had come. When he had done, he got to his feet again,
drew off one of his mailed gauntlets, and wiped his pale face, which was
all wet with terror.

"Ay," he said, "it'll be my turn next."

"Who hath done this, Bennet?" Richard asked, still holding the arrow in
his hand.

"Nay, the saints know," said Hatch. "Here are a good two score Christian
souls that we have hunted out of house and holding, he and I. He has
paid his shot, poor shrew, nor will it be long, mayhap, ere I pay mine.
Sir Daniel driveth over-hard."

"This is a strange shaft," said the lad, looking at the arrow in his
hand.

"Ay, by my faith!" cried Bennet. "Black, and black-feathered. Here is
an ill-favoured shaft, by my sooth! for black, they say, bodes burial.
And here be words written. Wipe the blood away. What read ye?"

"'_Appulyaird fro Jon Amend-All_,'" read Shelton. "What should this
betoken?"

"Nay, I like it not," returned the retainer, shaking his head. "John
Amend-All! Here is a rogue's name for those that be up in the world!
But why stand we here to make a mark? Take him by the knees, good Master
Shelton, while I lift him by the shoulders, and let us lay him in his
house. This will be a rare shog to poor Sir Oliver; he will turn paper
colour; he will pray like a windmill."

They took up the old archer, and carried him between them into his house,
where he had dwelt alone. And there they laid him on the floor, out of
regard for the mattress, and sought, as best they might, to straighten
and compose his limbs.

Appleyard's house was clean and bare. There was a bed, with a blue
cover, a cupboard, a great chest, a pair of joint-stools, a hinged table
in the chimney corner, and hung upon the wall the old soldier's armoury
of bows and defensive armour. Hatch began to look about him curiously.

"Nick had money," he said. "He may have had three score pounds put by.
I would I could light upon't! When ye lose an old friend, Master
Richard, the best consolation is to heir him. See, now, this chest. I
would go a mighty wager there is a bushel of gold therein. He had a
strong hand to get, and a hard hand to keep withal, had Appleyard the
archer. Now may God rest his spirit! Near eighty year he was afoot and
about, and ever getting; but now he's on the broad of his