Martin Valliant did some mighty1 rapid thinking. That glimpse of Mellis’s face had stirred his manhood to a kind of Norse frenzy2. Yet he kept his wits unclouded; and this was the way he reasoned the thing out.
“They will build that bridge of theirs. I might shoot one or two of them through the loophole, but they have cross-bows and will mark the loop. When they have built their bridge they will be able to batter3 down the gate, and while I am busy there, one or two of them might swim the mere4 and come at me from behind. They are in light harness. This armor of mine should turn a cross-bow bolt. I will try to shoot one or two of them, and then open the gate, let down my bridge, and give them battle there or on the causeway.”
The audacity5 of the plan pleased him, for Martin Valliant was discovering in himself the wit and daring of a great fighter. He hung his green shield about his neck, dropped the vizor of his salade, took the bow and arrows and his naked sword, and made straight for the gate-house. The ladder and stage he had built gave him command of the loophole. And his luck and his cunning shook hands, for he pinked two men, one in the body and the other in the throat, before a cross-bow bolt came stinging through the loophole.
“Two from ten leaves eight.”
He scrambled6 down the ladder, leaving his bow on the stage, and quite calmly and at his leisure unbarred and opened the gate.
Mellis, lying in a patch of young fern on the edge of the beech7 wood, held her breath and watched him in amazement8. For one moment a wild doubt stabbed her; he was a craven, he was going to surrender Woodmere and shirk a fight. The next moment she thought him mad, but she had torn all doubt of him from her heart and thrown it from her with hot scorn. She saw Martin let down his bridge, and take his stand just outside the gate, with the point of his sword on the ground and his hands resting on the pommel. He was a white and challenging figure holding the bridge and the gate, daring Swartz and his men to come at him and try their fortune.
One of the cross-bowmen fired a shot; the bolt struck Martin’s pauldron and glanced harmlessly aside.
“drop that—drop that!”
Swartz roared at the fellow. He was a tough old rogue9, but he had a soldier’s love of courage.
“One man against eight, and you want to fight him at fifty paces!”
He pushed his horse along the causeway, and looked curiously10 at Martin Valliant. The figure in white harness puzzled him; it did not seem to belong to a runaway11 monk12.
“Who are you, my friend?”
Martin answered him.
“Come and see.”
Swartz grinned.
“By God—and we will! Bid that Dale wench drop her bow, and my fellows shall not use their arbalists. We will make a straight fight of it, Master Greenshield.”
The first man to try his luck was a little stunted13 fellow who had been a smith and was immensely strong in the arms and back, but a fool in the choice of his weapons. He came footing it cautiously along the narrow bridge, with his spear held pointed14 at Martin. He had some idea of feinting at Martin’s throat, of dropping the point and getting the shaft15 between the taller man’s legs and tripping him. The trick might have worked if Martin Valliant had not lopped off the spear-head with a sudden sweep of his sword, caught the staff in his left hand, and swung the fellow into the water. The smith could not swim, and was drowned; but Martin had no time to think of being merciful.
A tall fellow charged him while he was still on the beam, and it was a question of which man gave the bigger blow and knocked the other into the mere. Martin’s sword had that honor. Swartz’s second gentleman fell across the beam with a red wound in his throat, struggled for a few seconds, and then slipped dying into the mere.
Swartz was biting his beard.
“What—there is no man here who can stand up to a monk! Big Harry16, there: have a swash at him with your pole-ax.”
Big Harry had the face and temper of a bull. He made a rush along the bridge, swung his pole-ax, and struck at Martin’s head. The salade threw the point aside, and the shaft struck Martin’s shoulder. He had shortened his sword and thrust hard at the big man. The point went through Big Harry’s midriff, and the mere hid a third victim.
Swartz rolled out of the saddle and drew his sword.
“Stand back! This fellow is too good for such raw cattle. I have fought many fights in my time.”
Then Martin did a knightly17 thing. He went to meet Swartz, crossing the beam, so that they met on the broad causeway where neither man could claim any advantage.
Swartz saluted18 him.
“I take that to heart, my friend. It was gallantly19 thought of. One word before we fight it out like gentlemen. Who the devil are you?”
Martin kept silent.
“You will not tell me? I must find it out for myself. Good. And so—to business.”
Swartz was lightly armed, and he trusted to his swordsmanship, for he was very clever with the sword. But his swashbuckling craftiness20 proved useless against a man harnessed as Martin Valliant was harnessed, and who fought like a young madman. It was like aiming delicate and cunning blows at a man of iron, a man who struck back furiously without troubling to defend himself. Swartz, with blood in his eyes, plunged21 to escape that whistling sword, closed with Martin, and tried to throw him; but Martin’s gadded22 fist beat him off and sent him heavily to the ground.
Swartz lay still, while the five men who had stood to watch this battle royal fumbled23 with their weapons and looked at each other out of the corners of their eyes.
“Try the cross-bow on him, Jack24.”
“Shoot, man, and we’ll push at him with our spears.”
But Martin Valliant did not leave them the right to choose how and when they would attack him. His blood was on fire. He came leaping along the causeway, a white figure of shining wrath25, and those five men turned tail and fled incontinently toward the woods. Martin did not follow them, but went back to the place where Swartz was lying. The old swashbuckler was sitting up, dazed, ghastly, trying to wipe t............