“Now, Clement Maldon,” cried Christopher, “will you listen, or will you bide with your horse and servant and hear no more till Judgment Day?  If you do not guess it, learn that I have practised archery from my youth.  Should you doubt, hold up your hand and I’ll send a shaft between your fingers.”

The Abbot, who was shaken but unhurt, rose slowly and stood there, the dead horse on one side and the dead man on the other.

“Speak,” he said in a muffled voice.

“My Lord Abbot,” went on Christopher, “a minute ago you tried to murder me, and, had not my mail been good, would have succeeded.  Now your life is in my hand, for, as you have seen, I do not miss.  Those servants of yours are coming to your help.  Call to them to halt, or——­” and he lifted the bow.

The Abbot obeyed, and the men, understanding, stayed where they were, at a distance, but within earshot.

“You have a crucifix upon your breast,” continued Christopher.  “Take it in your right hand now and swear an oath.”

Again the Abbot obeyed.

“Swear thus,” he said, Emlyn, who was crouched beneath the parapet, prompting him from time to time; “I, Clement Maldon, Abbot of Blossholme, in the presence of Almighty God in heaven, and of Christopher Harflete and others upon earth,” and he jerked his head backwards towards the windows of the house, where all therein were gathered, listening, “make oath upon the symbol of the Rood.  I swear that I abandon all claim of wardship over the body of Cicely Harflete, born Cicely Foterell, the lawful wife of Christopher Harflete, and all claim to the lands and goods that she may possess, or that were possessed by her father, John Foterell, Knight, or by her mother, Dame Foterell, deceased.  I swear that I will raise no suit in any court, spiritual or temporal, of this or other realms against the said Cicely Harflete or against the said Christopher Harflete, her husband, nor seek to work injury to their bodies or their souls, or to the bodies or the souls of any who cling to them, and that henceforth they may live and die in peace from me or any whom I control.  Set your lips to the Rood and swear thus now, Clement Maldon.”

The Abbot hearkened, and so great was his rage, for he had no meek heart, that he seemed to swell like an angry toad.

“Who gave you authority to administer oaths to me?” he asked at length.  “I’ll not swear,” and he cast the crucifix down upon the snow.

“Then I’ll shoot,” answered Christopher.  “Come, pick up that cross.”

But Maldon stood silent, his arms folded on his breast.  Christopher aimed and loosed, and so great was his skill—­for there were few archers in England like to him—­that the arrow pierced Maldon’s fur cap and carried it away without touching the shaven head beneath.

“The next shall be two inches lower,” he said, as he set another on the string.  “I waste no more good shafts.”