So much for lances in front. But the knight behind? Would not his sword
the next moment be through his brain?
There was a clatter, a crash, and looking back Hereward saw horse and man
rolling in the rut, and rolling with them Martin Lightfoot. He had already
pinned the felon knight's head against the steep bank, and, with uplifted
axe, was meditating a pick at his face which would have stopped alike his
love-making and his fighting.
"Hold thy hand," shouted Hereward. "Let us see who he is; and remember
that he is at least a knight."
"But one that will ride no more to-day. I finished his horse's going as I
rolled down the bank."
It was true. He had broken the poor beast's leg with a blow of the axe,
and they had to kill the horse out of pity ere they left.
Martin dragged his prisoner forward.
"You?" cried Hereward. "And I saved your life three days ago!"
The knight answered nothing.
"You will have to walk home. Let that be punishment enough for you," and
he turned.
"He will have to ride in a woodman's cart, if he have the luck to find
one."
The third knight had fled, and after him the dead man's horse. Hereward
and his man rode home in peace, and the third knight, after trying vainly
to walk a mile or two, fell and lay, and was fain to fulfil Martin's
prophecy, and be brought home in a cart, to carry for years after, like
Sir Lancelot, the nickname of the Chevalier de la Charette.
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