Hereward felt that his sword was loose in the sheath, and then gripped his
lance, with a heart beating, but not with fear.

The next moment he heard the rattle of a horse's hoofs behind him; looked
back; and saw a knight charging desperately down the gully, his bow in
hand, and arrow drawn to the head.

To turn was impossible. To stop, even to walk on, was to be ridden over
and hurled to the ground helplessly. To gain the mouth of the gully, and
then turn on his pursuer, was his only chance. For the first and almost
the last time in his life, he struck spurs into his horse, and ran away.
As he went, an arrow struck him sharply in the back, piercing the corslet,
but hardly entering the flesh. As he neared the mouth, two other knights
crashed their horses through the brushwood from right and left, and stood
awaiting him, their spears ready to strike. He was caught in a trap. A
shield might have saved him; but he had none.

He did not flinch. Dropping his reins, and driving in the spurs once more,
he met them in full shock. With his left hand he hurled aside the
left-hand lance, with his right he hurled his own with all his force at
the right-hand foe, and saw it pass clean through the felon's chest, while
his lance-point dropped, and passed harmlessly behind his knee.

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