lads as ever twirled a shaft over their thumb-nails. Hark to the dogs, how lustily they sing!'
Nearer and clearer, swelling up out of the night, came the gay marching lilt:
What of the bow?
The bow was made in England,
Of true wood, of yew wood,
The wood of English bows;
For men who are free
Love the old yew-tree
And the land where the yew-tree grows.
What of the men?
The men were bred in England,
The bowmen, the yeomen,
The lads of dale and fell.
Here's to yon and to you,
To the hearts that are true,
And the land where the true hearts dwell.
'They sing very joyfully,' said Du Guesclin, 'as though they were going to a festival.'
'It is their wont when there is work to be done.'
'By Saint Paul!' quoth Sir Nigel, 'it is in my mind that they come too late, for I cannot see how we are to come down from this tower.'
'There they come, the hearts of gold!' cried Aylward. 'See, they move out from the shadow. Now they cross the meadow. They are on the further side of the moat. Holà, camarades, holà! Johnston, Eccles, Cooke, Harward, Bligh! Would ye see a fair lady and two gallant knights done foully to death?'
'Who is there?' shouted a deep voice from below. 'Who is this who speaks with an English tongue?'
'It is I, old lad. It is Sam Aylward of the Company; and here is your captain, Sir Nigel Loring, and four others, all laid out to be grilled like an Easterling's herrings.'
'Curse me if I did not think that it was the style of
