Then came two-score more archers, ten more men-at-arms, and finally a rear guard of twenty bowmen, with big John towering in the front rank and the veteran Aylward marching by the side, his battered harness and faded surcoat in strange contrast with the snow-white jupons and shining brigandines of his companions.

A quick cross-fire of greetings and questions and rough West Saxon jests flew from rank to rank, or were bandied about betwixt the marching archers and the gazing crowd.
"Hola, Gaffer Higginson!" cried Aylward, as he spied the portly figure of the village innkeeper.

"No more of thy nut-brown, mon gar.

We leave it behind us." "By St.Paul, no!" cried the other.

"You take it with you.