"I rely upon Heaven only," answered Dick, casting his sword some way

behind him on the snow. "Now, if your ill-fate bids you, come; and,

under the pleasure of the Almighty, I make myself bold to feed your bones

to foxes."

"I did but try you, Dickon," returned the knight, with an uneasy

semblance of a laugh. "I would not spill your blood."

Go, then, ere it be too late," replied Shelton. "In five minutes I will

call the post. I do perceive that I am too long-suffering. Had but our

places been reversed, I should have been bound hand and foot some

minutes

past."

"Well, Dickon, I will go," replied Sir Daniel. "When we next meet, it

shall repent you that ye were so harsh."

And with these words, the knight turned and began to move off under the

trees. Dick watched him with strangely-mingled feelings, as he went,

swiftly and warily, and ever and again turning a wicked eye upon the lad

who had spared him, and whom he still suspected.

There was upon one side of where he went a thicket, strongly matted with

green ivy, and, even in its winter state, impervious to the eye. Herein,

all of a sudden, a bow sounded like a note of music. An arrow flew, and

with a great, choked cry of agony and anger, the Knight of Tunstall threw

up his hands and fell forward in the snow.

The Black Arrow