Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1906-03-04
SUNDAY MAGAZINE for MARCH 4. 1906

"If it please you, Sir Robert, the bowmen
would fain put these men to death in their
own fashion" said he.
$50 that they die, | care not how, Knolles
answered carelessly, and looked back no
more.
Human life was cheap in those stern days
when the footmen of a stricken army or the
crew of a captured ship slain without
any question or thought of mercy by the vic
tors. War was a rude game, with death for
the stake, and the forfeit was always claimed
on the one side and paid on the other without
doubt or hesitation. Only the knight might
be spared, since his ransom made him worth
more alive than dead. To men trained in
such a school, with death forever hanging
over their own heads, it may be well believed
that the Staying of two peasant murderers
was a small matter
And yet there was special reason why upon
this occasion the bowmen wished to keep the
deed in their own hands. Ever since their dis
pute aboard the Basilisk there had been ill-feel-
ing betwixt Bartholomew the old bald-headed
bower and long Ned Wellington the DaleS-
man, which had ended in conflict at Oman,
in which not only they but dozen of their
friends had been laid upon the cobblestones.
The dispute ragged round their respective
knowledge and skill with the bow, and now
some quick wit amongst the soldiers had sug
gested a grim fashion in which it should be
put to the proof once for all which could
draw the surer shaft.
A thick wood lay two hundred PAGES from
the ROAD upon WHICH the arcnerS STOOD. ~
stretch of smooth grassy sward lay between.
The two peasants were led out fifty yards from
the road, with their faces toward the wood.
There they stood, held leash and casting
many wondering frightened glance over their
shoulders at the preparations which were
being made behind them
Old Bartholomew and the big Yorkshire
man had stepped out of the ranks and stood
side by side, each with his strung bow in his
left hand and a single arrow in his right With
oar hoy had and cd heir
shooting-gloves and fastened their bracers.
They plucked and cast up a few blades of
grass to measure the wind, examined every
small point of their tackle, turned their sides
to the mark, and widened their feet in firmer
stance. From all sides chaff and counsel
from their comrades.
"A three-quarter wind bower" cried one
Aim bodys breadth to the right"
But not thy body's breadth, bowyer,"
laughed another, " else may you be overwide."
Nay, this wind will scarce turn we'll
drawn shaft" said third. "Shoot dead upon
him and you will be clap in the clout."
Steady, Ned, for the good name of the
Dales," cried a Yorlshireman. Loose easy.
and pluck not, or l am five crowns the poorer
man"
"a weeks pay on Bartholomew shouted
another. Now, old fat-pate, fail me notl'
Enough enough Stint your talk!' cried
the old bowman, Wat of Carlisle. Were
your shafts as quick as your tongues there
would be no facing you. Do you shoot upon
the little one, Bartholomew, and you, Ned, up
on the other. Give them law until l cry
the word, then loose in your own fashion and
at your own time. Are you ready? Hola,
there, Hayward, Beddington, let them runl''
The leashes were torn away, and the two
men, STOPPING their heads, ran madly for the
shelter of the wood, amid such howl from
the archers as beaters may give when the hare
starts from its form. The two bowmen
each with his arrow drawn to the pile, stood
like russell statues, menacing, motionless their
eager eyes fixed upon the fugitives, their
bowstaves rising slowly as the distance be-
tween them heightened. The Bretons were
halfway to the wood, and still Old Wat was
silent 1t may have been mercy or it may
have been mischief, but at least the chase
should have fair chance of life At six
score PAGES he turned his grizzled head at last.
"Loose!" he cried.
At the word the Yorkshireman's bow-string
twanged 1t was not for nothing that he had
earned the name of being one of the deadliest
archers of the North and had twice borne
away the silver arrow of Selby. Swift and true
flew the fatal shaft and buried itself to the
feather in the curved back of the long yellow
haired peasant. Without sound he fell upon
his face and lay stone-dead upon the grass,
the one short white plume betwixt his dark
shoulders to mark where Death had smote
him.
The Yorkshireman threw his bowstave into