"Cut him down!"

Understanding that he was to be set on, Peter sprang forward and
snatched the Scotchman's sword from the ground where it had fallen, at
the same time dropping his staff and drawing his dagger with the left
hand. Now he was well armed, and looked so fierce and soldier-like as he
faced his foes, that, although four or five blades were out, they held
back. Then Peter spoke for the first time, for he knew that against so
many he had no chance.

"Englishmen," he cried in ringing tones, but without shifting his head
or glance, "will you see me murdered by these Spanish dogs?"

There was a moment's pause, then a voice behind cried:

"By God! not I," and a brawny Kentish man-at-arms ranged up beside him,
his cloak thrown over his left arm, and his sword in his right hand.

"Nor I," said another. "Peter Brome and I have fought together before."

"Nor I," shouted a third, "for we were born in the same Essex hundred."

And so it went on, until there were as many stout Englishmen at his side
as there were Spaniards and Scotchmen before him.

"That will do," said Peter, "we want no more than man to man. Look to
the women, comrades behind there. Now, you murderers, if you would see
English sword-play, come on, or, if you are afraid, let us go in peace."