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"Nay, lads, nay!" cried Ford, pushing back the nearest archer.
"This is but scurvy conduct. Keep your hands off, or it will be
the worse for you."
"Keep your tongue still, or it will be the worse for you,"
shouted the most drunken of the archers. "Who are you to spoil
sport?"
"A raw squire, new landed," said another. "By St. Thomas of
Kent! we are at the beck of our master, but we are not to be
ordered by every babe whose mother hath sent him as far as
Aquitaine."
"Oh, gentlemen," cried the girl in broken French, "for dear
Christ's sake stand by us, and do not let these terrible men do
us an injury."
"Have no fears, lady," Alleyne answered. "We shall see that all
is well with you. Take your hand from the girl's wrist, you
north-country rogue!"
"Hold to her, Wat!" said a great black-bearded man-at-arms, whose
steel breast-plate glimmered in the dusk. "Keep your hands from
your bodkins, you two, for that was my trade before you were
born, and, by God's soul! I will drive a handful of steel through
you if you move a finger.


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