fulk of the forest had taken the way towards witch’s cross, with the full moon shining like a silver buckler behind him, to find himself standing at gaze among the yews of the black gill.

straight before him stretched a black aisle pillared and arched with huge yews. the aisle ended, like the choir of a church, in a great woodland window where the full moon hung, one yellow rim touching a flurry of clouds. fulk had drawn aside against the trunk of a tree, lean, alert, shadowy, conscious of something stirring away yonder in the glooms.

as he stood there watching, and straining his ears in the windless silence of the april night, he saw a figure move suddenly into the opening of this woodland window and remain there, outlined against the moon. the figure was wrapped in a loose cloak, and the peak and jagged edge of a hood showed up sharply. moreover, a curved black line beside it betrayed the line of a strung bow.

fulk’s sinews were as taut as lute cords. here was a blessed chance sent after many nights of grim watching and waiting for certain elusive rascals who had been slaying my lord of lancaster’s deer. he began to move like a cat, slowly, sinuously, with a queer trailing action of the legs, slipping from tree to tree. the yews had dropped no dead wood; the turf was soft and sleek, and fulk moved as silently as an owl flitting down a hedgerow.

the figure with the bow stood above him on a low bank where the yews ended and the fern and gorse began. it was motionless save for a slight turning of the head from side to side, and wholly intent upon scanning the heath beyond. fulk drew a deep breath, gathered himself, and sprang.

the figure whipped round with a sharp cry. a wave of fulk’s arm knocked aside the stabbing point of the horn end of the bow. the two black shapes grappled, one striving to break away, the other to hold its quarry. someone’s foot slipped in a rabbit hole, and the two came down the bank in a tangle into the dense shade under the yews.

a cloud came over the moon, and out yonder a fat hart had risen and was galloping over the heath. fulk, on top in the tussle, had a grip of a wrist whose hand had darted for a girdle knife. the figure under him ceased to struggle.

“caught, you lousel!”

the voice that answered him had a fine edge of anger.

“let me go, you clown. have you no more wit than——”

fulk sprang back and up.

“what!”

“fool, let me but get my knife.”

“blood of st. thomas—a woman!”

author: warwick deeping