CHAPTER II
THE MURDER BY THE MERE
For a while Sir John and his retainer rode in silence. Then he laughed
loudly.
"Jeffrey," he called, "that was a near touch. Sir Priest was minded to
stick his Spanish pick-tooth between our ribs, and shrive us
afterwards, as we lay dying, to salve his conscience."
"Yes, master; only, being reasonable, he remembered that English
swords have a longer reach, and that his bullies are in the Ford ale-
house seeing the Old Year out, and so put it off. Master, I have
always told you that old October of yours is too strong to drink at
noon. It should be saved till bed-time."
"What do you mean, man?"
"I mean that ale spoke yonder, not wisdom. You have showed your hand
and played the fool."
"Who are you to teach me?" asked Sir John angrily. "I meant that he
should hear the truth for once, the slimy traitor."
"Perhaps, perhaps; but these be bad days for Truth and those who court
her. Was it needful to tell him that to-morrow you journey to London
upon a certain errand?"
"Why not? I'll be there before him."
"Will you ever be there, master? The road runs past the Abbey, and
that priest has good ruffians in his pay who can hold their tongues."
"Do you mean that he will waylay me? I say he dare not. Still, to
please you, we will take the longer path through the forest."
"A rough one, master; but who goes with you on this business? Most of
us are away with the wains, and others make holiday. There are but
three serving-men at the hall, and you cannot leave the Lady Cicely
without a guard, or take her with you through this cold. Remember
there's wealth yonder which some may need more even than your lands,"
he added meaningly. "Wait a while, then, till your people return or
you can call up your tenants, and go to London as one of your quality
should, with twenty good men at your back."
"And so give our friend the Abbot time to get Cromwell's ear, and
through him that of the King. No, no; I ride to-morrow at the dawn
with you, or, if you are afraid, without you, as I have done before
and taken no harm."
"None shall say that Jeffrey Stokes is afraid of man or priest or
devil," answered the old soldier, colouring. "Your road has been good
enough for me this thirty years, and it is good enough now. If I
warned you it was not for my own sake, who care little what comes, but
for yours and that of your house."
"I know it," said Sir John more kindly. "Take not my words ill, my
temper is up to-day. Thank the saints! here is the hall at last. Why!
whose horse has passed the gates before us?"
Jeffrey glanced at the tracks which the moonlight showed very clearly
in the new-fallen snow.
"Sir Christopher Harflete's grey mare," he said. "I know the shoeing
and the round shape of the hoof. Doubtless he is visiting Mistress
Cicely."
"Whom I have forbidden to him," grumbled Sir John, swinging himself
from the saddle.
"Forbid him not," answered Jeffrey, as he took his horse. "Christopher
Harflete may yet be a good friend to a maid in need, and I think that
need is nigh."
"Mind your business, knave," shouted Sir John. "Am I to be set at
naught in my own house by a chit of a girl and a gallant who would
mend his broken fortunes?"
"If you ask me, I think so," replied the imperturbable Jeffrey, as he
led away the horses.
Sir John strode into the house by the backway, which opened on to the
stable-yard. Taking the lantern that stood by the door, he went along
galleries and upstairs to the sitting-chamber above the hall, which,
since her mother's death, his daughter had used as her own, for here
he guessed that he would find her. Setting down the lantern upon the
passage table, he pushed open the door, which was not latched, and
entered.
The room was large, and, being lighted only by the great fire that
burned upon the hearth and two candles, all this end of it was hid in
shadow. Near to the deep window-place the shadow ceased, however, and
here, seated in a high-backed oak chair, with the light of the blazing
fire falling full upon her, was Cicely Foterell, Sir John's only
surviving child. She was a tall and graceful maiden, blue-eyed, brown-
haired, fair-skinned, with a round and child-like face which most
people thought beautiful to look upon. Just now this face, that
generally was so arch and cheerful, seemed somewhat troubled. For this
there might be a reason, since, seated upon a stool at her side, was a
young man talking to her earnestly.
He was a stalwart young man, very broad about the shoulders, clean-cut
in feature, with a long, straight nose, black hair, and merry black
eyes. Also, as such a gallant should do, he appeared to be making love
with much vigour and directness, for his face was upturned pleading
with the girl, who leaned back in her chair answering him nothing. At
this moment, indeed, his copious flow of words came to an end, perhaps
from exhaustion, perhaps for other reasons, and was succeeded by a
more effective method of attack. Suddenly sinking from the stool to
his knees, he took the unresisting hand of Cicely and kissed it
several times; then, emboldened by his success, threw his long arms
about her, and before Sir John, choked with indignation, could find
words to stop him, drew her towards him and treated her red lips as he
had treated her fingers. This rude proceeding seemed to break the
spell that bound her, for she pushed back the chair and, escaping from
his grasp, rose, saying in a broken voice----
"Oh! Christopher, dear Christopher, this is most wrong."
"May be," he answered. "So long as you love me I care not what it is."
"That you have known these two years, Christopher. I love you well,
but, alas! my father will have none of you. Get you hence now, ere he
returns, or we both shall pay for it, and I, perhaps, be sent to a
nunnery where no man may come."
"Nay, sweet, I am here to ask his consent to my suit----"
Then at last Sir John broke out.
"To ask my consent to your suit, you dishonest knave!" he roared from
the darkness; whereat Cicely sank back into her chair looking as
though she would faint, and the strong Christopher staggered like a
man pierced by an arrow. "First to take my girl and hug her before my
very eyes, and then, when the mischief is done, to ask my consent to
your suit!" and he rushed at them like a charging bull.
Cicely rose to fly, then, seeing no escape, took refuge in her lover's
arms. Her infuriated father seized the first part of her that came to
his hand, which chanced to be one of her long brown plaits of hair,
and tugged at it till she cried out with pain, purposing to tear her
away, at which sight and sound Christopher lost his temper also.
"Leave go of the maid, sir," he said in a low, fierce voice, "or, by
God! I'll make you."
"Leave go of the maid?" gasped Sir John. "Why, who holds her tightest,
you or I? Do you leave go of her."
"Yes, yes, Christopher," she whispered, "ere I am pulled in two."
Then he obeyed, lifting her into the chair, but her father still kept
his hold of the brown tress.
"Now, Sir Christopher," he said, "I am minded to put my sword through
you."
"And pierce your daughter's heart as well as mine. Well, do it if you
will, and when we are dead and you are childless, weep yourself and go
to the grave."
"Oh! father, father," broke in Cicely, who knew the old man's temper,
and feared the worst, "in justice and in pity, listen to me. All my
heart is Christopher's, and has been from a child. With him I shall
have happiness, without him black despair; and that is his case too,
or so he swears. Why, then, should you part us? Is he not a proper man
and of good lineage, and name unstained? Until of late did you not
ever favour him much and let us be together day by day? And now, when
it is too late, you deny him. Oh! why, why?"
"You know why well enough, girl? Because I have chosen another husband
for you. The Lord Despard is taken with your baby face, and would
marry you. But this morning I had it under his own hand."
"The Lord Despard?" gasped Cicely. "Why, he only buried his second
wife last month! Father, he is as old as you are, and drunken, and has
grandchildren of well-nigh my age. I would obey you in all things, but
never will I go to him alive."
"And never shall he live to take you," muttered Christopher.
"What matter his years, daughter? He is a sound man, and has no son,
and should one be born to him, his will be the greatest heritage
within three shires. Moreover, I need his friendship, who have bitter
enemies. But enough of this. Get you gone, Christopher, before worse
befall you."
"So be it, sir, I will go; but first, as an honest man and my father's
friend, and, as I thought, my own, answer me one question. Why have
you changed your tune to me of late? Am I not the same Christopher
Harflete I was a year or two ago? And have I done aught to lower me in
the world's eye or in yours?"
"No, lad," answered the old knight bluntly; "but since you will have
it, here it is. Within that year or two your uncle whose heir you were
has married and bred a son, and now you are but a gentleman of good
name, and little to float it on. That big house of yours must go to
the hammer, Christopher. You'll never stow a bride in it."
"Ah! I thought as much. Christopher Harflete with the promise of the
Lesborough lands was one man; Christopher Harflete without them is
another--in your eyes. Yet, sir, I hold you foolish. I love your
daughter and she loves me, and those lands and more may come back, or
I, who am no fool, will win others. Soon there will be plenty going up
there at Court, where I am known. Further, I tell you this: I believe
that I shall marry Cicely, and earlier than you think, and I would
have had your blessing with her."
"What! Will you steal the girl away?" asked Sir John furiously.
"By no means, sir. But this is a strange world of ours, in which from
hour to hour top becomes bottom, and bottom top, and there--I think I
shall marry her. At least I am sure that Despard the sot never will,
for I'll kill him first, if I hang for it. Sir, sir, surely you will
not throw your pearl upon that muckheap. Better crush it beneath your
heel at once. Look, and say you cannot do it," and he pointed to the
pathetic figure of Cicely, who stood by them with clasped hands,
panting breast, and a face of agony.
The old knight glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes, and saw
something that moved him to pity, for at bottom his heart was honest,
and though he treated her so roughly, as was the fashion of the times,
he loved his daughter more than all the world.
"Who are you, that would teach me my duty to my bone and blood?" he
grumbled. Then he thought a while, and added, "Hear me, now,
Christopher Harflete. To-morrow at the dawn I ride to London with
Jeffrey Stokes on a somewhat risky business."
"What business, sir?"
"If you would know--that of a quarrel with yonder Spanish rogue of an
Abbot, who claims the best part of my lands, and has poisoned the ear
of that upstart, the Vicar-General Cromwell. I go to take the deeds
and prove him a liar and a traitor also, which Cromwell does not know.
Now, is my nest safe from you while I am away? Give me your word, and
I'll believe you, for at least you are an honest gentleman, and if you
have poached a kiss or two, that may be forgiven. Others have done the
same before you were born. Give me your word, or I must drag the girl
through the snows to London at my heels."
"You have it, sir," answered Christopher. "If she needs my company she
must come for it to Cranwell Towers, for I'll not seek hers while you
are away."
"Good. Then one gift for another. I'll not answer my Lord of Despard's
letter till I get back again--not to please you, but because I hate
writing. It is a labour to me, and I have no time to spare to-night.
Now, have a cup of drink and be off with you. Love-making is thirsty
work."
"Aye, gladly, sir, but hear me, hear me. Ride not to London with such
slight attendance after a quarrel with Abbot Maldon. Let me wait on
you. Although my fortunes be so low I can bring a man or two--six or
eight, indeed--while yours are away with the wains."
"Never, Christopher. My own hand has guarded my head these sixty
years, and can do so still. Also," he added, with a flash of insight,
"as you say, the journey is dangerous, and who knows? If aught went
wrong, you might be wanted nearer home. Christopher, you shall never
have my girl; she's not for you. Yet, perhaps, if need were, you would
strike a blow for her even if it made you excommunicate. Get hence,
wench. Why do you stand there gaping on us, like an owl in sunlight?
And remember, if I catch you at more such tricks, you'll spend your
days mumbling at prayers in a nunnery, and much good may they do you."
"At least I should find peace there, and gentle words," answered
Cicely with spirit, for she knew her father, and the worst of her fear
had departed. "Only, sir, I did not know that you wished to swell the
wealth of the Abbots of Blossholme."
"Swell their wealth!" roared her father. "Nay, I'll stretch their
necks. Get you to your chamber, and send up Jeffrey with the liquor."
Then, having no choice, Cicely curtseyed, first to her father and next
to Christopher, to whom she sent a message with her eyes that she
dared not utter with her lips, and so vanished into the shadows, where
presently she was heard stumbling against some article of furniture.
"Show the maid a light, Christopher," said Sir John, who, lost in his
own thoughts, was now gazing into the fire.
Seizing one of the two candles, Christopher sprang after her like a
hound after a hare, and presently the pair of them passed through the
door and down the long passage beyond. At a turn in it they halted,
and once more, without word spoken, she found her way into those long
arms.
"You will not forget me, even if we must part?" sobbed Cicely.
"Nay, sweet," he answered. "Moreover, keep a brave heart; we do not
part for long, for God has given us to each other. Your father does
not mean all he says, and his temper, which has been stirred to-day,
will soften. If not, we must look to ourselves. I keep a swift horse
or two, Cicely. Could you ride one if need were?"
"I have ever loved riding," she said meaningly.
"Good. Then you shall never go to that fat hog's sty, for I'll stick
him first. And I have friends both in Scotland and in France. Which
like you best?"
"They say the air of France is softer. Now, away from me, or one will
come to seek us," and they tore themselves apart.
"Emlyn, your foster-mother, is to be trusted," he said rapidly; "also
she loves me well. If there be need, let me hear of you through her."
"Aye," she answered, "without fail," and glided from him like a ghost.
"Have you been waiting to see the moon rise?" asked Sir John, glancing
at Christopher from beneath his shaggy eyebrows as he returned.
"Nay, sir, but the passages in this old house of yours are most
wondrous long, and I took a wrong turn in threading them."
"Oh!" said Sir John. "Well, you have a talent for wrong turns, and
such partings are hard. Now, do you understand that this is the last
of them?"
"I understand that you may say so, sir."
"And that I mean it, too, I hope. Listen, Christopher," he added, with
earnestness, but in a kindly voice. "Believe me, I like you well, and
would not give you pain, or the maid yonder, if I could help it. Yet I
have no choice. I am threatened on all sides by priest and king, and
you have lost your heritage. She is the only jewel that I can pawn,
and for your own safety's sake and her children's sake, must marry
well. Yonder Despard will not live long, he drinks too hard; and then
your day may come, if you still care for his leavings--perhaps in two
years, perhaps in less, for she will soon see him out. Now, let us
talk no more of the matter, but if aught befalls me, be a friend to
her. Here comes the liquor--drink it up and be off. Though I seem
rough with you, my hope is that you may quaff many another cup at
Shefton."
It was seven o'clock of the next morning, and Sir John, having eaten
his breakfast, was girding on his sword--for Jeffrey had already gone
to fetch the horses--when the door opened and his daughter entered the
great hall, candle in hand, wrapped in a fur cloak, over which her
long hair fell. Glancing at her, Sir John noted that her eyes were
wide and frightened.
"What is it now, girl?" he asked. "You'll take your death of cold
among these draughts."
"Oh! father," she said, kissing him, "I came to bid you farewell, and
--and--to pray you not to start."
"Not to start? And why?"
"Because, father, I have dreamed a bad dream. At first last night I
could not sleep, and when at length I did I dreamed that dream
thrice," and she paused.
"Go on, Cicely; I am not afraid of dreams, which are but foolishness--
coming from the stomach."
"Mayhap; yet, father, it was so plain and clear I can scarcely bear to
tell it to you. I stood in a dark place amidst black things that I
knew to be trees. Then the red dawn broke upon the snow, and I saw a
little pool with brown rushes frozen in its ice. And there--there, at
the edge of the pool, by a pollard willow with one white limb, you
lay, your bare sword in your hand and an arrow in your neck, shot from
behind, while in the trunk of the willow were other arrows, and lying
near you two slain. Then cloaked men came as though to carry them
away, and I awoke. I say I dreamed it thrice."
"A jolly good morrow indeed," said Sir John, turning a shade paler.
"And now, daughter, what do you make of this business?"
"I? Oh! I make that you should stop at home and send some one else to
do your business. Sir Christopher, for instance."
"Why, then I should baulk your dream, which is either true or false.
If true, I have no choice, it must be fulfilled; if false, why should
I heed it? Cicely, I am a plain man and take no note of such fancies.
Yet I have enemies, and it may well chance that my day is done. If so,
use your mother wit, girl; beware of Maldon, look to yourself, and as
for your mother's jewels, hide them," and he turned to go.
She clasped him by the arm.
"In that sad case what should I do, father?" she asked eagerly.
He stopped and stared at her up and down.
"I see that you believe in your dream," he said, "and therefore,
although it shall not stay a Foterell, I begin to believe in it too.
In that case you have a lover whom I have forbid to you. Yet he is a
man after my own heart, who would deal well by you. If I die, my game
is played. Set your own anew, sweet Cicely, and set it soon, ere that
Abbot is at your heels. Rough as I may have been, remember me with
kindness, and God's blessing and mine be on you. Hark! Jeffrey calls,
and if they stand, the horses will take cold. There, fare you well.
Fear not for me, I wear a chain shirt beneath my cloak. Get back to
bed and warm you," and he kissed her on the brow, thrust her from him
and was gone.
Thus did Cicely and her father part--for ever.
All that day Sir John and Jeffrey, his serving-man, trotted forward
through the snow--that is, when they were not obliged to walk because
of the depth of the drifts. Their plan was to reach a certain farm in
a glade of the woodland within two hours of sundown, and sleep there,
for they had taken the forest path, leaving again for the Fens and
Cambridge at the dawn. This, however, proved not possible because of
the exceeding badness of the road. So it came about that when the
darkness closed in on them a little before five o'clock, bringing with
it a cold, moaning wind and a scurry of snow, they were obliged to
shelter in a faggot-built woodman's hut, waiting for the moon to
appear among the clouds. Here they fed the horses with corn that they
had brought with them, and themselves also from their store of dried
meat and barley cakes, which Jeffrey carried on his shoulder in a bag.
It was a poor meal eaten thus in the darkness, but served to stay
their stomachs and pass away the time.
At length a ray of light pierced the doorway of the hut.
"She's up," said Sir John, "let us be going ere the nags grow stiff."
Making no answer, Jeffrey slipped the bits back into the horses'
mouths and led them out. Now the full moon had appeared like a great
white eye between two black banks of cloud and turned the world to
silver. It was a dreary scene on which she shone; a dazzling plain of
snow, broken by patches of hawthorns, and here and there by the gaunt
shape of a pollard oak, since this being the outskirt of the forest,
folk came hither to lop the tops of the trees for firing. A hundred
and fifty yards away or so, at the crest of a slope, was a round-
shaped hill, made, not by Nature, but by man. None knew what that hill
might be, but tradition said that once, hundreds or thousands of years
before, a big battle had been fought around it in which a king was
killed, and that his victorious army had raised this mound above his
bones to be a memorial for ever.
The story was indeed that, being a sea-king, they had built a boat or
dragged it thither from the river shore and set him in it with all the
slain for rowers; also that he might be seen at nights seated on his
horse in armour, and staring about him, as when he directed the
battle. At least it is true that the mount was called King's Grave,
and that people feared to pass it after sundown.
As Jeffrey Stokes was holding his master's stirrup for him to mount,
he uttered an exclamation and pointed. Following the line of his
outstretched hand, in the clear moonlight Sir John saw a man, who sat,
still as any statue, upon a horse on the very point of King's Grave.
He appeared to be covered with a long cloak, but above it his helmet
glittered like silver. Next moment a fringe of black cloud hid the
face of the moon, and when it passed away the man and horse were gone.
"What did that fellow there?" asked Sir John.
"Fellow?" answered Jeffrey in a shaken voice, "I saw none. That was
the Ghost of the Grave. My grandfather met him ere he came to his end
in the forest, none know how, for the wolves, of which there were
plenty in his day, picked his bones clean, and so have many others for
hundreds of years; always just before their doom. He is an ill fowl,
that Ghost of the Grave, and those who clap eyes on him do wisely to
turn their horses' heads homewards, as I would to-night if I had my
way, master."
"What use, Jeffrey? If the sight of him means death, death will come.
Moreover, I believe nothing of the tale. Your ghost was some forest
reeve or herdsman."
"A forest reeve or herdsman who wanders about in a steel helm on a
fine horse in snow-time when there are no trees to cut or cattle to
mind! Well, have it as you will, master; only God save me from such
reeves and herdmen, for I think they hail from hell."
"Then he was a spy watching whither we go," answered Sir John angrily.
"If so, who sent him? The Abbot of Blossholme? In that case I would
sooner meet the devil, for this means mischief. I say that we had
better ride back to Shefton."
"Then do so, Jeffrey, if you are scared, and I will go on alone, who,
being on an honest business, fear not Satan or an abbot, either."
"Nay, master. Many a year ago, when we were younger, I stood by you on
Flodden Field when Sir Edward, Christopher Harflete's father, was
killed at our side, and those red-bearded Scotch bare-breeks pressed
us hard, yet I never itched to turn my back, even after that great
fellow with an axe got you down, and we thought that all was lost.
Then shall I do so now?--though it is true that I fear yon goblin more
than all the Highlanders beyond the Tweed. Ride on; man can die but
once, and for my part I care not when it comes, who have little to
lose in an ill world."
So without more words they started forward, peering about them as they
went. Soon the forest thickened, and the track they followed wound its
way round great trunks of primeval oaks, or the edges of bog-holes, or
through brakes of thorns. Hard enough it was to find it at times,
since the snow made it one with the bordering ground, and the gloom of
the oaks was great. But Jeffrey was a woodman born, and from his
childhood had known the shape of every tree in that waste, so that
they held safely to their road. Well would it have been for them if
they had not!
They came to a place where three other tracks crossed that which they
rode upon, and here Jeffrey Stokes, who was ahead, held up his hand.
"What is it?" asked Sir John.
"It is the marks of ten or a dozen shod horses passed within two
hours, since the last snow fell. And who be they, I wonder?"
"Doubtless travellers like ourselves. Ride on, man; that farm is not a
mile ahead."
Then Jeffrey broke out.
"Master, I like it not," he said. "Battle-horses have gone by here,
not chapmen's or farmers' nags, and I think I know their breed. I say
that we had best turn about if we would not walk into some snare."
"Turn you, then," grumbled Sir John indifferently. "I am cold and
weary, and seek my rest."
"Pray God that you may not find it when you are colder," muttered
Jeffrey, spurring his horse.
They went on through the dead winter silence, that was broken only by
the hoots of a flitting owl hungry for the food that it could not
find, and the swish of the feet of a galloping fox as it looped past
them through the snow. Presently they came to an open place ringed in
by forest, so wet that only marsh-trees would grow there. To their
right lay a little ice-covered mere, with sere, brown reeds standing
here and there upon its face, and at the end of it a group of stark
pollarded willows, whereof the tops had been cut for poles by those
who dwelt in the forest farm near by. Sir John looked at the place and
shivered a little--perhaps because the frost bit him. Or was it that
he remembered his daughter's dream, which told of such a spot? At any
rate, he set his teeth, and his right hand sought the hilt of his
sword. His weary horse sniffed the air and neighed, and the neigh was
answered from close at hand.
"Thank the saints! we are nearer to that farm than I thought," said
Sir John.
As he spoke the words a number of men appeared galloping down on them
from out of the shelter of a thorn-brake, and the moonlight shone on
the bared weapons in their hands.
"Thieves!" shouted Sir John. "At them now, Jeffrey, and win through to
the farm."
The man hesitated, for he saw that their foes were many and no common
robbers, but his master drew his sword and spurred his beast, so he
must do likewise. In twenty seconds they were among them, and some one
commanded them to yield. Sir John rushed at the fellow, and, rising in
his stirrups, cut him down. He fell all of a heap and lay still in the
snow, which grew crimson about him. One came at Jeffrey, who turned
his horse so that the blow missed, then took his weight upon the point
of his sword, so that this man, too, fell down and lay in the snow,
moving feebly.
The rest, thinking this greeting too warm for them, swung round and
vanished again among the thorns.
"Now ride for it," said Jeffrey.
"I cannot," answered Sir John. "One of those knaves has hurt my mare,"
and he pointed to blood that ran from a great gash in the beast's
foreleg, which it held up piteously.
"Take mine," said Jeffrey; "I'll dodge them afoot."
"Never, man! To the willows; we will hold our own there;" and,
springing from the wounded beast, which tried to hobble after them,
but could not, for its sinews were cut, he ran to the shelter of the
trees, followed by Jeffrey on his horse.
"Who are these rogues?" he asked.
"The Abbot's men-at-arms," answered Jeffrey. "I saw the face of him I
spitted."
Now Sir John's jaw dropped.
"Then we are sped, friend, for they dare not let us go. Cicely dreams
well."
As he spoke an arrow whistled by them.
"Jeffrey," he went on, "I have papers on me that should not be lost,
for with them might go my girl's heritage. Take them," and he thrust a
packet into his hand, "and this purse also. There's plenty in it. Away
--anywhere, and lie hid out of reach a while, or they'll still your
tongue. Then I charge you on your soul, come back with help and hang
that knave Abbot--for your Lady's sake, Jeffrey. She'll reward you,
and so will God above."
The man thrust away purse and deeds in some deep pocket.
"How can I leave you to be butchered?" he muttered, grinding his
teeth.
As the words left his lips he heard his master utter a gurgling sound,
and saw that an arrow, shot from behind, had pierced him through the
throat; saw, too, he who was skilled in war, that the wound was
mortal. Then he hesitated no longer.
"Christ rest you!" he said. "I'll do your bidding or die;" and,
turning his horse, he drove the rowels into its sides, causing it to
bound away like a deer.
For a moment the stricken Sir John watched him go. Then he ran out of
his cover, shaking his sword above his head--ran into the open
moonlight to draw the arrows. They came fast enough, but ere ever he
fell, for that steel shirt of his was strong, Jeffrey, lying low on
his horse's neck, was safe away, and though the murderers followed
hard they never caught him.
Nor, though they searched for days, could they find him at Shefton or
elsewhere, for Jeffrey, who knew that all roads were blocked, and who
dared not venture home, doubling like a hare across country, had won
down to the water, where a ship lay foreign bound, and by dawn was on
the sea.
