[Illustration: PLATE VIII]

   "A mere trifle," said Tell modestly.

   The crowd cheered again and again.

   Friesshardt and Leuthold lay on the ground beside the pole, feeling
very sore and bruised, and thought that perhaps, on the whole, they had
better stay there. There was no knowing what the crowd might do after
this, if they began to fight again. So they lay on the ground and made
no attempt to interfere with the popular rejoicings. What they

    wanted

   , as Arnold of Sewa might have said if he had been there,
was a few moments' complete rest. Leuthold's helmet had been hammered
with sticks until it was over his eyes and all out of shape, and
Friesshardt's was very little better. And they both felt just as if
they had been run over in the street by a horse and cart.

   "Tell!" shouted the crowd. "Hurrah for Tell! Good old Tell!"

   "Tell's the boy!" roared Ulric the smith. "Not another man in

   Switzerland could have made that shot."

   "No," shrieked everybody, "not another!"

   "Speech!" cried someone from the edge of the crowd.

   "Speech! Speech! Tell, speech!" Everybody took up the cry.

   "No, no," said Tell, blushing.

   "Go on, go on!" shouted the crowd.

   "Oh, I couldn't," said Tell; "I don't know what to say."

   "Anything will do. Speech! Speech!"

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