A crushing of brambles and parting of bushes was heard, and lo! a deer, with a little fawn by its side, came across the glade, looking very frightened.  The mother was restraining her own speed for the sake of the little one, but every moment got ahead, involuntarily, then stopped, and strove by piteous cries to urge the fawn to do its best.

What did it mean?  The mystery was soon explained, the deep bay of a hound was heard close behind.

Martin’s deep sympathies with the animal creation were aroused at once, and he stood in the opening the deer had made, his short hunting spear in hand.

“Take care—­what are you about!” cried Hubert.

The next instant the deerhound came in sight, and in a few leaps would have attained his prey had not Martin been in the way; but the boy knelt on one knee, presenting his spear full at the dog, who, springing down a bank through the opening, literally impaled itself upon it.

“Good heavens!” said Hubert, “to kill a hound, a good hound like this.”

“Didn’t you see the poor fawn and its mother?  I wasn’t going to let the brute touch them.  I would have died first.”

Just then the voices of men came from the wood.

“See, they follow upon the track of the deer; let us run, we are in for it else.”

“I am not ashamed of my deed,” said Martin, and would sooner face it out; if they are good men they will not blame me.”

“They will hang thee, that’s all—­fly.”

“Too late; you go, leave me to pay the penalty of my own deed, if penalty there be.”

“What, forsake a comrade in distress?  Nay, I would die first, that is a thing I would die for, but for a brute—­never.”

A tall hunter, a man of most commanding appearance and stature, stood upon the scene.  Two attendants followed behind.

“The earl of Warwick,” whispered Hubert, awe struck.

The earl looked astonished as he saw the dog.

“Who has done this?” he said, in a voice of thunder.

But Martin did not tremble as he replied: 

“I, my lord.”

“And why? did the hound attack thee?”

“It was to save the poor doe and her fawn; the mother would not leave her little one, and both would have been killed together.”

The indignation of the two woodsmen was almost indecorous, but they did not speak before their dread master.

“And didst thou have aught to do with it?” said the earl, addressing Hubert.

“Nay, my lord, I did it all with this spear; he tried to stop me,” said Martin.

“Then thou shalt hang for it.

“Here, Ralph, Gilbert, have you a rope between you?”

Ralph, the gamekeeper, unwound one from his waist.  It was too often needed, and had our Martin been a peasant lad, he would have speedily swung from a branch of the oak above, but—­Hubert came bravely forward.