While the burgomaster was exposing Gerard at Tergou, Margaret had a trouble of her own at Sevenbergen.It was a housewife's distress, but deeper than we can well conceive.She came to Martin Wittenhaagen, the old soldier, with tears in her eyes.
"Martin, there's nothing in the house, and Gerard is coming, and he is so thoughtless.He forgets to sup at home.When he gives over work, then he runs to me straight, poor soul; and often he comes quite faint.And to think I have nothing to set before my servant that loves me so dear."Martin scratched his head."What can I do?""It is Thursday; it is your day to shoot; sooth to Say, I counted on you to-day.""Nay," said the soldier, "I may not shoot when the Duke or his friends are at the chase; read else.I am no scholar." And he took out of his pouch a parchment with a grand seal.It purported to be a stipend and a licence given by Philip, Duke of Burgundy, to Martin Wittenhaagen, one of his archers, in return for services in the wars, and for a wound received at the Dukes side.The stipend was four merks yearly, to be paid by the Duke's almoner, and the licence was to shoot three arrows once a week, viz., on Thursday, and no other day, in any of the Duke's forests in Holland, at any game but a seven-year-old buck or a doe carrying fawn; proviso, that the Duke should not be hunting on that day, or any of his friends.In this case Martin was not to go and disturb the woods on peril of his salary and his head, and a fine of a penny.
Margaret sighed and was silent.
"Come, cheer up, mistress," said he; "for your sake I'll peril my carcass; I have done that for many a one that was not worth your forefinger.It is no such mighty risk either.I'll but step into the skirts of the forest here.It is odds but they drive a hare or a fawn within reach of my arrow.""Well, if I let you go, you must promise me not to go far, and not to be seen; far better Gerard went supperless than ill should come to you, faithful Martin."The required promise given, Martin took his bow and three arrows, and stole cautiously into the wood: it was scarce a furlong distant.The horns were heard faintly in the distance, and all the game was afoot."Come," thought Martin, "I shall soon fill the pot, and no one be the wiser." He took his stand behind a thick oak that commanded a view of an open glade, and strung his bow, a truly formidable weapon.It was of English yew, six feet two inches high, and thick in proportion; and Martin, broad-chested, with arms all iron and cord, and used to the bow from infancy, could draw a three-foot arrow to the head, and, when it flew, the eye could scarce follow it, and the bowstring twanged as musical as a harp.This bow had laid many a stout soldier low in the wars of the Hoecks and Cabbel-jaws.In those days a battlefield was not a cloud of smoke; the combatants were few, but the deaths many -for they saw what they were about; and fewer bloodless arrows flew than bloodless bullets now.A hare came cantering, then sat sprightly, and her ears made a capital V.Martin levelled his tremendous weapon at her.The arrow flew, the string twanged; but Martin had been in a hurry to pot her, and lost her by an inch:
the arrow seemed to hit her, but it struck the ground close to her, and passed under her belly like a flash, and hissed along the short grass and disappeared.She jumped three feet perpendicular and away at the top of her speed."Bungler!" said Martin.A sure proof he was not an habitual bungler, or he would have blamed the hare.He had scarcely fitted another arrow to his string when a wood-pigeon settled on the very tree he stood under."Aha!"thought he, you are small, but dainty." This time he took more pains; drew his arrow carefully, loosed it smoothly, and saw it, to all appearance, go clean through the bird, carrying feathers skyward like dust.Instead of falling at his feet, the bird, whose breast was torn, not fairly pierced, fluttered feebly away, and, by a great effort, rose above the trees, flew some fifty yards and dead at last; but where, he could not see for the thick foliage.