The comrades of this last victim, who had just sent up a shout of triumph, now changed their note, and it became a yell of rage.  Wendot was back in his old vantage ground, wounded by several arrows, spent by blows, and growing faint from loss of blood, but dauntless and resolute as ever, determined to sell his life dearly, and hold out as long as he had breath left in him, sooner than let the helpless child fall into the clutches of these fierce men, goaded now to madness by the opposition they had met with.

Hark! what was that?  It was a shout, a hail, and then the familiar call of the Dynevor brothers rang through the still air.

“La-ha-boo!”

It was Griffeth’s voice.  He had come at last.  It was plain that the foe had heard, and had paused; for if they were menaced from another quarter, it was time to think of their own safety.

Summoning up all his strength, Wendot sent back an answering hail, and the next moment there was the sound of fierce voices and the clashing of weapons overhead on the summit of the cliff; and in quick, urgent accents Wendot’s foes were ordered to retreat, as there was treachery somewhere, and they had been betrayed.

Wendot saw his antagonists lower their weapons, and return the way they had come, with fearful backward glances, lest their boy foe should be following them.  But he had no wish to do that.  He was spent and exhausted and maimed.  He turned backwards towards the safer shelter of the little alcove, and sank down beside the trembling child, panting, bleeding, and almost unconscious.

CHAPTER IV.  WENDOT’S REWARD.

“Father, father, father!”

The shrill, glad cry broke from the lips of little Gertrude almost at the same moment as Wendot sank at her feet, spent and fainting; and the lad, making a great effort, opened his dim eyes to see the tall form of the English noble stooping over his little daughter, gathering her in his arms with a gesture of passionate endearment.

Wendot fancied he must be dreaming; perhaps it was all a strange, terrible dream:  everything was swimming before his eyes in a sort of blood-coloured mist.  He gave up the effort to try to disentangle the maze in which he seemed to be moving, and was sinking into unconsciousness again when a sharp cry from his brother aroused him.

“Wendot, Wendot! —­ O father, see —­they have killed him!”

“Nay, lad, not that.  Here, let me get to him.

“Griffeth, run thou and tell the fellows to let down ropes from above to draw him up.  He cannot return along that narrow ledge.  He and the child had best be drawn up by those above.  Tell them to lose no time.  The boy must be taken home to his mother’s care.  This narrow ledge is growing like an oven.  Bid one of the men run to the brook for a draught of water.”