ter Dick," said Bennet. "Bring me him down like a ripe
apple."

The fugitive was now within but a few leaps of safety; but this last
part of the meadow ran very steeply uphill, and the man ran slower in
proportion. What with the greyness of the falling night, and the uneven
movements of the runner, it was no easy aim; and as Dick levelled his
bow, he felt a kind of pity, and a half desire that he might miss. The
quarrel sped.

The man stumbled and fell, and a great cheer arose from Hatch and the
pursuers. But they were counting their corn before the harvest. The man
fell lightly; he was lightly afoot again, turned and waved his cap in a
bravado, and was out of sight next moment in the margin of the wood.

"And the plague go with him!" cried Bennet. "He has thieves' heels: he
can run, by St. Banbury! But you touched him, Master Shelton; he has
stolen your quarrel, may he never have good I grudge him less!"

"Nay, but what made he by the church?" asked Sir Oliver. "I am shrewdly
afeared there has been mischief here.--Clipsby, good fellow, get ye down
from your horse, and search thoroughly among the yews."

Clipsby was gone but a little while ere he returned, carrying a paper.

"This writing was pinned to the church door," he said, handing it to the
parson. "I found-naught else, sir parson."

"Now, by the power of Mother Church," cried Sir Oliver, "but this runs
hard on sacrilege! For the king's good pleasure, or the lord of the
manor--well! But that every run-the-hedge in a green jerkin should
fasten papers to the chancel door--nay, it runs hard on sacrilege, hard;
and men have burned for matters of less weight! But what have we here?
The light fails apace. Good Master Richard, y' have young eyes. Read me,
I pray, this libel."

Dick Shelton took the paper in his hand and read it aloud. It contained
some lines of a very rugged doggerel, hardly even rhyming, written in a
gross character, and most uncouthly spelt. With the spelling somewhat
bettered, this is how they ran:--

"I had four blak arrows under my belt,
Four for the greefs that I have felt,
Four for the nomber of ill menne
That have oppressid me now and then.

One is gone; one is wele sped;
Old Apulyaird is ded.

One is for Maister Bennet Hatch,
That burned Grimstone, walls and thatch.

One for Sir Oliver Oates,
That cut Sir Harry Shelton's throat.

Sir Daniel, ye shull have the fourt;
We shall think it fair spo