He observed with astonishment, as he drew near, that the archer's bow was on John's back, the archer's sword by John's side, and the steel cap laid upon the tree-trunk between them.
"Mort de ma vie!" Aylward shouted, looking down at the dice.

"Never had I such cursed luck.

A murrain on the bones! I have not thrown a good main since I left Navarre.

A one and a three! En avant, camarade!" "Four and three," cried Hordle John, counting on his great fingers, "that makes seven.

Ho, archer, I have thy cap! Now have at thee for thy jerkin!" "Mon Dieu!" he growled, "I am like to reach Christchurch in my shirt." Then suddenly glancing up, "Hola, by the splendor of heaven, here is our cher petit! Now, by my ten finger bones! this is a rare sight to mine eyes." He sprang up and threw his arms round Alleyne's neck, while John, no less pleased, but more backward and Saxon in his habits, stood grinning and bobbing by the wayside, with his newly won steel cap stuck wrong side foremost upon his tangle of red hair.
"Hast come to stop ?" cried the bowman, patting Alleyne all over in his delight.