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Then at the end of the verse the scourge changed hands and the
chanting began anew.
"Truly, holy fathers," said the archer in French as they came
abreast of them, "you have beaten enough for to-day. The road is
all spotted like a shambles at Martinmas. Why should ye
mishandle yourselves thus?"
"C'est pour vos peches--pour vos peches," they droned, looking at
the travellers with sad lack-lustre eyes, and then bent to their
bloody work once more without heed to the prayers and persuasions
which were addressed to them. Finding all remonstrance useless,
the three comrades hastened on their way, leaving these strange
travellers to their dreary task.
"Mort Dieu!" cried the bowman, "there is a bucketful or more of
my blood over in France, but it was all spilled in hot fight, and
I should think twice before I drew it drop by drop as these
friars are doing. By my hilt! our young one here is as white as
a Picardy cheese. What is amiss then, mon cher?"
"It is nothing," Alleyne answered. "My life has been too quiet,
I am not used to such sights.


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