Here I made as though I would pass on, but he spoke again.

’Pardon my words, they were well meant, and perhaps you may come to learn their truth.  I will detain you no more.  Will you graciously direct me on my road to Yarmouth, for I am not sure of it, having ridden by another way, and your English country is so full of trees that a man cannot see a mile?’

I walked a dozen paces down the bridle-path that joined the road at this place, and pointed out the way that he should go, past Ditchingham church.  As I did so I noticed that while I spoke the stranger was watching my face keenly and, as it seemed to me, with an inward fear which he strove to master and could not.  When I had finished again he raised his bonnet and thanked me, saying,

‘Will you be so gracious as to tell me your name, young Sir?’

‘What is my name to you?’ I answered roughly, for I disliked this man.  ‘You have not told me yours.’

’No, indeed, I am travelling incognito.  Perhaps I also have met a lady in these parts,’ and he smiled strangely.  ’I only wished to know the name of one who had done me a courtesy, but who it seems is not so courteous as I deemed.’  And he shook his horse’s reins.

‘I am not ashamed of my name,’ I said.  ’It has been an honest one so far, and if you wish to know it, it is Thomas Wingfield.’

‘I thought it,’ he cried, and as he spoke his face grew like the face of a fiend.  Then before I could find time even to wonder, he had sprung from his horse and stood within three paces of me.

‘A lucky day!  Now we will see what truth there is in prophecies,’ he said, drawing his silver-mounted sword.  ’A name for a name; Juan de Garcia gives you greeting, Thomas Wingfield.’

Now, strange as it may seem, it was at this moment only that there flashed across my mind the thought of all that I had heard about the Spanish stranger, the report of whose coming to Yarmouth had stirred my father and mother so deeply.  At any other time I should have remembered it soon enough, but on this day I was so set upon my tryst with Lily and what I should say to her, that nothing else could hold a place in my thoughts.

‘This must be the man,’ I said to myself, and then I said no more, for he was on me, sword up.  I saw the keen point flash towards me, and sprang to one side having a desire to fly, as, being unarmed except for my stick, I might have done without shame.  But spring as I would I could not avoid the thrust altogether.  It was aimed at my heart and it pierced the sleeve of my left arm, passing through the flesh—­no more.  Yet at the pain of that cut all thought of flight left me, and instead of it a cold anger filled me, causing me to wish to kill this man who had attacked me thus and unprovoked.  In my hand was my stout oaken staff which I had cut myself on the banks of Hollow Hill, and if I would fight I must make such play with this as I might.  It seems a poor weapon indeed to match against a Toledo blade in the hands of one who could handle it well, and yet there are virtues in a cudgel, for when a man sees himself threatened with it, he is likely to forget that he holds in his hand a more deadly weapon, and to take to the guarding of his own head in place of running his adversary through the body.