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wick appeared to have got his fill, and he smote the ground with his staff. Then Barwick turned and Philip Marsham went in upon him like a ray of light. Three times he threw the big man, by sheer skill and knowledge, for the other by his own weight hindered himself, but after the third time the world went white and the lad fell.

He sat up shortly and looked into Sir John’s face. "'T is the lack of food,” he stammered, ‘‘or I’d outlast him as well as out-wrestle him.”

Sir John was laughing mightily. "You gave him full measure, and thank God you are fresh from a fast or I’d ha’ lost a keeper. As for food, we shall remedy that lack. Two things I have to say: one to you, Barwick. You attempted a foul trick. I'll have none such in my service. If it happens again, you go. And as for you, you white-livered cur, that would leave a boy to a beating and never turn a hand to save him, I’ll even take you in hand myself.”

And with that, Sir John flung back his cloak and raising his staff with one hand while with the other he kept hold of Martin’s coat-collar, he thrashed the man till he bellowed and blubbered — till his coat was split and his shirt was bloody and his head was broken and his legs were all welts and bruises.

“Help! Help! O Holy Mary! Saints in Heaven! Help! O Jamie, Jamie, Jamie! O sir! Kind sir! let me go! Let me go!”

Sir John flung him away with a last whistling stroke of the great staff. ‘‘That,” said he, ‘‘for cowardice.”

And Jamie Barwick, having already forgotten his own rebuke, was broadly smiling.

Sir John turned then and looked Philip Marsham in