Once again into the heart of the abyss crashed the body of the unfortunate soldier; but a sharp thrill of pain ran through Wendot’s frame, and a barbed arrow, well aimed at the joint of his leather jerkin, plunged into his neck and stuck fast.

The first assailant whom he had disposed of was but one of a close line, following each other in rapid succession.  As his face became visible to the man now foremost a shout of surprise and anger rose up.

“It is Res Wendot!  It is one of the sons of the house of Dynevor!

“Wendot, thou art mad!  We are the friends of thy house.  We are here at the instigation of thine own kindred.  Give us the maid, and thou shalt go free.  We would not harm thee.”

“Stir but one step nearer, and I slay thee as I have slain thy two comrades,” cried Wendot, in a voice which all might hear.  “I deal not in treachery towards those that trust us.  I will answer for the safety of the maid with mine own life.  Of my hand her father will demand her when he comes again.  Shall we men of Wales give right cause to the English to call us murderers, traitors, cowards?  Take my life if you will, take it a thousand times over if you will, it is only over my dead body that you will reach that child.”

“Down with him —­ traitor to the cause!  He is sold to the English!  He is no countryman of ours!  Spare him not!  He is worthy of death!  Down with every Welshman who bands not with those who would uphold his country’s cause!”

Such were the shouts which rent the air as the meaning of Wendot’s words made itself understood.  As for the brave lad himself, he had plucked the arrow from his neck, and now stood boldly on guard, resolved to husband his strength and keep on the defensive only, hoping thus to gain time until Griffeth and the armed men should arrive.

He had all the advantage of the position; but his foes were strong men, and came on thick and fast one after another, till it seemed as if the lad might be forced backwards by sheer weight and pressure.  But Wendot was no novice at the use of arms:  as his third foe fell upon him with heavy blows of his weighted axe, he stepped backwards a pace, and let the blows descend harmlessly upon the solid rock of the arch; until the man, disgusted at the non-success of his endeavours to tempt his adversary out of his defended position, threw away his blunted axe, and was about to draw his sword for a thrust, when the boy sprang like lightning upon him, and buried his poniard in his heart.

Over went the man like a log, almost dragging Wendot with him as he fell, and before the youth had had time to recover himself, he had received a deep gash in his sword arm from the foe who pressed on next, and who made a quick dash to try to get possession of the vantage ground of the arch.

But Wendot staggered back as if with weakness, let his adversary dash through the arch after him; and then, hurling himself upon him as he passed through, pushed him sheer off the ledge on the other side into the yawning gulf beneath.