But it was a risk, for the river had all the strength of a cataract, and he who slipped would infallibly be carried down by the strong current and dashed against the rocks and drowned.

Here Hubert watched, clad in light mail was he, and he cunningly kept in the shadow.

Soon he saw a black moving mass opposite, and then the moonlight gleam upon a hundred spear tops.  Did his heart fail him?  No; the chance he had pined for was come.  It was quite possible for one daring man to bid defiance to the hundred here, and prevent their crossing.

See, they come, and Hubert’s heart beats loudly—­the first is on the first stone, the others press behind.  He, the primus, leaps on to the second rock, and so to the third, and still his place is taken, at every resting place he leaves, by his successor.  Yes, they mean to get over, and to have a little blood letting and fire raising tonight, just for amusement.

And only one stout heart to prevent them.  They do not see him until the last stepping stone is attained by the first man, and but one more leap needed to the shore, when a stern, if youthful, voice cries: 

“Back, ye dogs of Welshmen!” and the first Celt falls into the stream, transfixed by Hubert’s spear, transfixed as he made the final leap.

A sudden pause:  the second man tries to leap so as to avoid the spear, his own similar weapon presented before him, but position gives Hubert advantage, and the second foe goes down the waves, dyeing them with his blood, raising his despairing hand, as he dies, out of the foaming torrent.

The third hesitates.

And now comes the real danger for Hubert:  a flight of arrows across the stream—­they rattle on his chain mail, and generally glance harmlessly off, but one or two find weak places, and although his vizor is down, Hubert knows that one unlucky, or, as the foe would say “lucky,” shot penetrating the eyelet might end sight and life together.  So he blows his horn, which he had scorned to do before.

He was but imperfectly clad in armour, and was soon bleeding in divers unprotected places; but there he stood, spear in hand, and no third person had dared to cross.

But when they heard the horn, feeling that the chance of a raid was going, the third sprang.  With one foot he attained the bank, and as Hubert was rather dizzy from loss of blood, avoided the spear thrust.  But the young Englishman drove the dagger, which he carried in the left hand, into his throat as he rose from the stream.  The fourth leapt.  Hubert was just in time with the spear.  The fifth hesitated—­the flight of arrows, intermitted for the moment, was renewed.

Just then up came Lord Walter, the eldest son of the earl, with a troop of lancers, and Hubert reeled to the ground from loss of blood, while the Welsh sullenly retreated.