The blow, luckily, did not take effect on that delicate forehead, but struck him on the shoulder:  nevertheless, Frank, who with all his grace and agility was as fragile as a lily, and a very bubble of the earth, staggered, and lost his guard, and before he could recover himself, Amyas saw a dagger gleam, and one, two, three blows fiercely repeated.

Mad with fury, he was with them in an instant.  They were scuffling together so closely in the shade that he was afraid to use his sword point; but with the hilt he dealt a single blow full on the ruffian’s cheek.  It was enough; with a hideous shriek, the fellow rolled over at his feet, and Amyas set his foot on him, in act to run him through.

“Stop! stay!” almost screamed Frank; “it is Eustace! our cousin Eustace!” and he leant against a tree.

Amyas sprang towards him:  but Frank waved him off.

“It is nothing—­a scratch.  He has papers:  I am sure of it.  Take them; and for God’s sake let him go!”

“Villain! give me your papers!” cried Amyas, setting his foot once more on the writhing Eustace, whose jaw was broken across.

“You struck me foully from behind,” moaned he, his vanity and envy even then coming out, in that faint and foolish attempt to prove Amyas not so very much better a man.

“Hound, do you think that I dare not strike you in front?  Give me your papers, letters, whatever Popish devilry you carry; or as I live, I will cut off your head, and take them myself, even if it cost me the shame of stripping your corpse.  Give them up!  Traitor, murderer! give them, I say!” And setting his foot on him afresh, he raised his sword.

Eustace was usually no craven:  but he was cowed.  Between agony and shame, he had no heart to resist.  Martyrdom, which looked so splendid when consummated selon les regles on Tower Hill or Tyburn, before pitying, or (still better) scoffing multitudes, looked a confused, dirty, ugly business there in the dark forest; and as he lay, a stream of moonlight bathed his mighty cousin’s broad clear forehead, and his long golden locks, and his white terrible blade, till he seemed, to Eustace’s superstitious eye, like one of those fair young St. Michaels trampling on the fiend, which he had seen abroad in old German pictures.  He shuddered; pulled a packet from his bosom, and threw it from him, murmuring, “I have not given it.”

“Swear to me that these are all the papers which you have in cipher or out of cipher.  Swear on your soul, or you die!”

Eustace swore.

“Tell me, who are your accomplices?”

“Never!” said Eustace.  “Cruel! have you not degraded me enough already?” and the wretched young man burst into tears, and hid his bleeding face in his hands.

One hint of honor made Amyas as gentle as a lamb.  He lifted Eustace up, and bade him run for his life.

“I am to owe my life, then, to you?”