Fair Margaret | Page 5

want a saint, my bonny lass," said the drunken
Scotchman, "Andrew is as good as Peter," at which witticism those of
the others who understood him laughed, for the man's name was
Andrew.
Next instant they laughed again, and to the ruffian Andrew it seemed as
though suddenly he had fallen into the power of a whirlwind. At least
Margaret was wrenched away from him, while he spun round and
round to fall violently upon his face.
"That's Peter!" exclaimed one of the soldiers in Spanish.
"Yes," answered another, "and a patron saint worth having"; while a
third pulled the recumbent Andrew to his feet.
The man looked like a devil. His cap had gone, and his fiery red hair
was smeared with mud. Moreover, his nose had been broken on a
cobble stone, and blood from it poured all over him, while his little red
eyes glared like a ferret's, and his face turned a dirty white with pain
and rage. Howling out something in Scotch, of a sudden he drew his
sword and rushed straight at his adversary, purposing to kill him.
Now, Peter had no sword, but only his short knife, which he found no
time to draw. In his hand, however, he carried a stout holly staff shod
with iron, and, while Margaret clasped her hands and Betty screamed,
on this he caught the descending blow, and, furious as it was, parried

and turned it. Then, before the man could strike again, that staff was up,
and Peter had leapt upon him. It fell with fearful force, breaking the
Scotchman's shoulder and sending him reeling back.
"Shrewdly struck, Peter! Well done, Peter!" shouted the spectators.
But Peter neither saw nor heard them, for he was mad with rage at the
insult that had been offered to Margaret. Up flew the iron-tipped staff
again, and down it came, this time full on Andrew's head, which it
shattered like an egg-shell, so that the brute fell backwards, dead.
For a moment there was silence, for the joke had taken a tragic turn.
Then one of the Spaniards said, glancing at the prostrate form:
"Name of God! our mate is done for. That merchant hits hard."
Instantly there arose a murmur among the dead man's comrades, and
one of them cried:
"Cut him down!"
Understanding that he was to be set on, Peter sprang forward and
snatched the Scotchman's sword from the ground where it had fallen, at
the same time dropping his staff and drawing his dagger with the left
hand. Now he was well armed, and looked so fierce and soldier-like as
he faced his foes, that, although four or five blades were out, they held
back. Then Peter spoke for the first time, for he knew that against so
many he had no chance.
"Englishmen," he cried in ringing tones, but without shifting his head
or glance, "will you see me murdered by these Spanish dogs?"
There was a moment's pause, then a voice behind cried:
"By God! not I," and a brawny Kentish man-at-arms ranged up beside
him, his cloak thrown over his left arm, and his sword in his right hand.
"Nor I," said another. "Peter Brome and I have fought together before."

"Nor I," shouted a third, "for we were born in the same Essex hundred."
And so it went on, until there were as many stout Englishmen at his
side as there were Spaniards and Scotchmen before him.
"That will do," said Peter, "we want no more than man to man. Look to
the women, comrades behind there. Now, you murderers, if you would
see English sword-play, come on, or, if you are afraid, let us go in
peace."
"Yes, come on, you foreign cowards," shouted the mob, who did not
love these turbulent and privileged guards.
By now the Spanish blood was up, and the old race-hatred awake. In
broken English the sergeant of the guard shouted out some filthy insult
about Margaret, and called upon his followers to "cut the throats of the
London swine." Swords shone red in the red sunset light, men shifted
their feet and bent forward, and in another instant a great and bloody
fray would have begun.
But it did not begin, for at that moment a tall señor, who had been
standing in the shadow and watching all that passed, walked between
the opposing lines, as he went striking up the swords with his arm.
"Have done," said d'Aguilar quietly, for it was he, speaking in Spanish.
"You fools! do you want to see every Spaniard in London torn to pieces?
As for that drunken brute," and he touched the corpse of Andrew with
his foot, "he brought his death upon himself. Moreover, he was not a
Spaniard, there is no blood quarrel. Come, obey me!