Just as the friar ceased
speaking, however, a troop of seven riders appeared at the turn of the
road. They were rough-looking men in long brown cloaks that were in
tatters at the edge; they wore round caps of mail on their heads, with
a broad leathern strap under the chin; their faces were dark, their
beards black and unkempt, and they rode small, ragged horses, as ill
cared for as themselves.
Gilbert sprang up almost as soon as he saw them, for he knew that, not
being travellers, they could hardly be anything but highwaymen. His own
men were on their feet as soon as he, while the muleteer guide
disappeared round the hut quietly and swiftly, like a mouse when a cat
is in sight. Gilbert made straight for his horses, followed by Dunstan
and the groom; but before he could reach them, two of the riders had
jumped the ditch from the road and intercepted him, while the others
rode on toward the shed to carry off his horses. His sword was out in a
flash, his men were beside him, their weapons in their hands, and the
grimy riders drew theirs also; it was like a little storm of steel in
the bright air. The Englishman's long blade whirled half a circle above
his head; the blow would beat down the horseman's guard and draw blood,
too.
But in mid-air his wrist was seized in the sudden grasp of sinewy
fingers, and the friar was already between him and his adversary,
warning the other off with his outstretched hand. The loose sleeve had
slipped back from his wrist, baring a brown, emaciated arm and elbow
upon which the swollen veins seemed to twist and climb like leafless
vines upon a withered tree.
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