The Treasures of Glaston 14

xiv. Stolen treasure


THE NEXT day came the shrining. All the countryside for miles about gathered at the abbey church for the great event. After Prime and High Mass, which the king and queen and all the court attended, a great procession was formed. Acolytes with crosses and novices holding candles and swinging censers came first, then all the officials of the monastic community, the obediendaries as they were called. Behind them in a cloud of fresh incense swung from another group of censer-bearers walked Abbot Robert, King Henry, and Queen Eleanor and six tall and stalwart monks bearing on their shoulders the huge hollowed oak wherein rested the bones of Arthur and Guene­vere. Monks and lay brothers followed, marching two by two. Hugh was there, and Dickon somewhat further behind with Brother Guthlac and other lay people belonging to the mo­nastic family.

All around the great Church of St. Mary the procession marched. The rich voices of the choir rang full and true, the metallic rattle of chains from the swinging censers sounded rhythmically, clouds of incense filled the air, and through it innumerable candle lights flickered and glinted like stars in a mist. The nave of the church was filled with lay folk, both high and low, and when the procession had passed three times around it, they joined in, following the last of the mon­astery people, out through the great arched central doors. The singing increased in volume as every voice took up the strains of the old familiar hymn, "Jerusalem the Golden." Then it thinned and straggled as the marchers wound around the churchyard, circled the little, old, deserted chapel of St. Joseph, and entered the cloisters, where it drew together again around the garth. Then, at last, they returned to the church.

As many as could get inside the doors did so. The king and queen and a few other important personages stood near the chancel with the abbot and priests who would perform the cere­mony. To the left, just where the north transept began, stood a large tomb of shining black marble, freshly built. After the sprinkling of holy water, much censing, and the intoning of suitable prayers, the great oak coffin was lowered into this, a slab of exquisitely veined stone was closed upon it, and the shrining drew to an end.

Hugh and Dickon had craned their necks and squirmed their way through the crowd until they could see and hear without difficulty.

In the middle of the service Hugh suddenly became con­scious of Dickon's fingers digging him in the ribs.

"Do you know what?" said the boy in a whisper, after he had gotten his friend's attention. "There's something else that ought to be in that tomb—King Arthur's sword!"

"Excalibur!" exclaimed Hugh, so loud that several turned and frowningly bade the boys be quiet.

"That's so!" he whis­pered in a lower tone. "I'd forgotten about the sword. It ought to have been here—you are right. But I don't suppose Bleheris would ever have consented to give it up."

"Well, he left the sword on the altar steps of the Old Church that last time we saw him there. Remember?"

Hugh nodded.

"I'm going to see if it's still there!" Dickon began at once to wriggle through the crowd toward one of the doors, but Hugh seized his sleeve and detained him.

"You can't get it now," he whispered decidedly. "And even if you did, who would believe it was King Arthur's sword with­out stopping to examine it? —And anyway it belongs to Bleheris—he—" But Dickon had worked himself free and was lost in the crowd.

Hugh turned back to the ceremony of the shrining, feeling somewhat uneasy.

When at last it was all over he moved with the crowd out of the church building and began looking around for Dickon. Suddenly he appeared at his elbow and Hugh was relieved to see that he was not carrying the huge iron-hiked sword. Ap­pearing with it at that particular moment would have been as awkward as it would have been spectacular.

"Oh, so it wasn't there?" said he. "Doubtless Bleheris has taken it off again. Well, come on, let's go over to the guest house; maybe we can catch a glimpse of Eileen."

"Hugh," said Dickon, and his voice sounded so strange that the boy stopped dead and stared at him.

"It was there, on the altar steps, and a lot more things, too; the crystal cross and my sapphire altar, and the very best and most precious of the old hermit's treasures, all there, laid out on the steps and floor. What on earth do you think is going on?"

"I can't imagine! Do you suppose Bleheris himself brought them there? Or somebody else? —And what for? I want to see them!"

Hugh started to turn back, but just at that moment they both spied the little Lady Eileen walking across the greensward toward them. She had her dog, Kenny, under her arm but her face looked so sad and woebegone as she drew closer that all thought save concern for her promptly left their minds.

They greeted her courteously, Dickon pulling off his cap and making quick, ducking bow as if he were in a hurry to get it over with.

"Fair damsel," said Hugh with his accustomed ease, "is there ought amiss? We would fain help you if it be possible."

"By all the saints!" Dickon broke in emphatically. "If anyone hath done thee wrong or made thee sorrowful I'll—I'll—" He left his sentence unfinished, there being no adequate threat to offer in his present state of ignorance.

"It's about Kenny," said the girl miserably. "They say I have got to give him up. He chewed my Lady Imogene's slipper last night, and he is always getting underfoot, and he yapped at one of the pageboys, too, and sometimes he runs away. But I love him—and I can't just leave him anywhere. He would starve or be killed by wild beasts." The tears were flowing fast now.

Dickon looked questioningly at Hugh, who nodded back.

"Could you now—would you leave him with us?" he said. "He could live at the grange with Brother Guthlac, and we, Hugh and I, would take care of him ourselves and—"

"And he wouldn't be the first homeless creature to find refuge in Glaston!" Hugh added with a wry little smile, think­ing of his own desolate state when he was brought to the abbey more than a year ago.

"That is most kind and gracious of you." The damsel dried her tears but still regarded them questioningly. "You—you would be very gentle and good to him? And the grange— would he be happy and comfortable there? I can't bear to part with him, but it would be good to know he—he was with friends who loved him!" A trembling little sigh, which was half a sob, made the boys more eager than ever to do her a serv­ice.

"After dinner we will take you to the grange and show you; it is a good place, and Brother Guthlac has a way with little beasts, big ones, too, for that matter, and whenever Kenny was not with us, he would be with him."

Dickon wondered as he talked, whether Guthlac would in­deed allow them to keep a pet at the grange but—well, he would just have to!

At that moment the bell rang for the noon meal and after it, when court and monastery folk were all settling down for an hour or two of afternoon quiet, the two boys went again to the guest house, to wait until Eileen could slip away unnoticed from the ladies and tire women and join them.

Brother Guthlac smiled good-humouredly enough when the three appeared at the grange and made their request. Then they sought out a warm, comfortable corner in an unused stall, fixed a bed and let the little dog play about and sniff his new sur­roundings.

"It won't be like living at court!" declared Dickon.

Eileen made a face indicative of her extreme distaste. "I am glad of that!" said she, "and he will be glad; I know he will! Deary me, but I am weary of all the curtsyings and mouthings and mannerings, all the stiff clothes and stiff ways! Often and often I wish I were a simple village maid in a bore! frock, and could sit at ease or play all the day long. It is not easy to be a lady!"

"Nor to be a knight," added Hugh sympathetically.

"But I would like to be a knight," said Dickon. "And if I were, would you be my lady?" He blushed to the roots of his hair as the words came tumbling out. He had not meant to say that at all. And now maybe she would be offended and not leave her dog with him.

She was not, however, for she smiled in the friendliest fashion and, taking the two yellow ribbons that bound her thick braids of brown hair, she gave one to Dickon and then handed the other to Hugh.

"You shall both be my knights," said she generously. "I give you each a token of my favour. If ever I am in danger or distress, I will send for one of you, if I can; and if ever you have need of a friend at court, send me my yellow ribbon that I may know, and then I will do for you whatsoever I can." She spoke graciously and gravely, and the boys gave heed to her words, pleased and touched by them.
Then she picked up Kenny, kissed him on his soft white ear and placed him in Dickon's arms.

"We shall be going early in the morning," said she. "Take him now and get better acquainted so I can think of him being happy with you."

The little beast was friendly enough. He was a young dog and he licked Dickon's ear and romped and played with both boys in eager, impartial puppy fashion. It was agreed between the three that Dickon should stay at the grange and keep Kenny amused while Hugh escorted the Lady Eileen back to the guest house, a mark of really unselfish devotion on Dickon's part for he would have dearly loved the few extra moments of the young damsel's society.

"You are courtly born, are you not?" Eileen said to Hugh as they walked across the greensward together.

"Aye, that I am," said Hugh, but added nothing further.

"Then you will surely be a knight some day. Remember my favour—I am truly in earnest in giving it to thee."

"I will indeed remember," said Hugh, "whether I be a knight or no."

They said little more and, when they had reached the guesthouse gate, Hugh had barely time to bid the little lady a courteous farewell before she was whisked away by one of the queen's ladies who had evidently been looking for her.

Dickon spent the whole night in the grange barn in order to make sure that Kenny should not be lonely. He rolled him­self up in a blanket on a pile of hay and slept so soundly that, even if the little beast had howled in despair and friendlessness, he never would have known it! But in the morning he found his small charge contentedly hunting rats in a cobwebby cor­ner, apparently very willing to change the luxuries of court life for a much more exciting if simpler one in the monastic grange.
King Henry and his court were ready betimes, and the ab­bot and chief monastery folk were already gathered around the guesthouse and the south gate to bid them farewell and Godspeed. Hugh and Dickon soon spied the Lady Eileen in the chattering crowd of women who surrounded the queen. Dickon managed to get her ear and attention sufficiently to signal that Kenny was well and flourishing, but what with all the stamp­ing horses, lurching litters, and servants rushing madly about, they could not approach her close enough to do more than wave to her as she mounted her small, restless palfrey and went clattering by.

At last all the visitors had got off and away, the outer gate was shut, the porter went wearily back to his post beside it, and the rest of the brothers prepared to take up their routine wherever they had left it.

Hugh felt Brother John's hand upon his shoulder as he turned rather listlessly toward the cloisters.

"Come, boy," said he, "there is much to be done. Thou dost handle the script passing well by now and I would set thee to copying a breviary. We have need of many more."

He sounded as if there had been no break in the monastic days, and Hugh felt the security of customary tasks slipping over him again, not unhappily.

When they came to the Painted Aumbry, Brother John opened the top of it and took out fresh quill pens, lead rules, a medium-sized frame on which to stretch a sheet of parch­ment, and various other book-making implements, and handed them to Hugh who took them to a writing desk set against the wall a little further along. The hours of the morning passed, quietly, steadily, punctuated by the regular offices, then dinner.

Hugh was glad to stretch his cramped body and aching fin­gers as he rose from his desk and stepped from the shade of the north cloister into the sunny garth. He hoped he would have the afternoon free and could go out into the orchards and marsh lands, for buds were bursting on bushes and trees, the willows by the Brue would be a golden yellow and the air was alive with the promise of growing things.

He also wanted to look in at the Old Church and see that odd collection of things Dickon had told him about. But no such good fortune. Brother John bade him return to his work after the noontide meal.

"So much precious time hath been lost," he grumbled. "What with all this bother about kings and queens, dead and alive! Books are far more important, at least beautiful ones are, and that is what we should be making!"

They went again to the north cloister while the rest of the monastic family betook itself to its hour of reading or rest. There was no relaxing in Brother John. After Hugh had set­tled himself to his copying again, the armarian, flourishing a dust cloth, applied himself to the Painted Aumbry. Evidently he was suffering from an attack of house cleaning. The two worked on, near each other but not speaking. Hugh became absorbed in his parchment. He liked to make the black letters clear and straight so that a written page was as lovely to the eye as to the mind.

Suddenly he was startled by a hoarse cry. He jumped, his pen making an ugly scrawl on the good fresh sheepskin, and turned to Brother John. The monk was standing motionless; his body bent slightly, his eyes fixed upon the lower part of the aumbry.

"What is it, Brother John?" cried Hugh, hastening to him. "What is the matter?"
T
he little monk straightened up and looked at the boy with white face and an expression of utter desolation.

"It's gone!" he said, scarcely above a whisper. "Our treasure! The Rook of the Seynt Graal!"

Hugh caught his breath. For a moment the cloister walls seemed to reel about him. He thrust Brother John aside that he might look for himself and see the hidden, secret cupboard, un­willing to believe what his ears and eyes told him. It was empty. The broken book had vanished.

Speechless, he looked back at Brother John. His mind regis­tered only one scene, one thought, Maurice, the king's minstrel, and the cynical face of the clever archdeacon, Walter Mape, peering over his shoulder as he, Hugh, displayed the treasure of Glaston; the look of unmistakable greed in their faces as they gazed at the soiled and worn old pages.

"The king should own that book," Maurice had said.

"There is none other in all the world," Walter Mape had added.

Could it be that those two had taken it, "borrowed" it, os­tensibly for the king's library, really for themselves, that they might pore over it and learn the age-old stories and traditions that were the loveliest in the world, and which could not be found in any other place?

Still Hugh gazed mutely and despairingly into the face of Brother John. If they had taken it, those two, then it was his fault, he was responsible. He should have known enough, he who had seen so many examples of the unscrupulousness of courtiers and hangers-on around the king!

"Gone!" Brother John was repeating. "Gone! But who could have taken it? Not a brother in the whole of Glaston would have laid hands upon it; few know that it is here; only one or two know what it is. Hugh, how could it have gone, and where?"

Then Hugh poured forth the whole story, not only how he had shown the book to Maurice and Walter Mape, but why he had done so; how he had recognised the story of the loathely lady which the minstrel had told as the same tale that was in­complete in the broken book.

"And, you see, Brother John, I had found a lot of those miss­ing pages that told other Grail stories, but not the very end of the adventure, so I asked Maurice where he had got it and—"

"You had found some missing pages! Where? What do you mean?" Brother John laid a shaking hand on the boy's arm. "By all the saints, boy, tell me quickly—you say you had found—?" He left his sentence unfinished in his excitement.

Then it all came out, of course. Hugh told of Dickon's underground treasure vault, of the chest with the loose pages in it, and how he had been working over them for months now, and kept them hidden behind a loose board inside the door of the Old Church.

"I wanted to wait until they were all done," he said, tears of distress coming into his eyes. "Then I—we—Dickon and I— were going to present them to you as our find, our work, a sort of gift to Glaston. And—and it would have meant so much to me, particularly, because—because, Glaston has been so good to me—in spite of my father—and everything." His voice trembled and for a moment he could not go on. Brother John continued to stare at him without a word.

"And now the book has been taken—and it is all my fault! What good will the loose pages be without the book they be­long to?" the boy finished miserably.

At last Brother John roused himself. "The minstrel and Sir Walter Mape," said he, returning to the subject of the theft. "If they have taken our book they must return it, and that right speedily! The king shall make them give it up! Come, boy, we must see the abbot. Thou and 1 shall mount nags and ride after the king's train."

They started across the garth, Brother John almost running. Hugh caught at his sleeve as he hurried after him.

"Brother John," said he, "I pray you, Brother John; it is my fault that the book is gone. Let me ride alone and recover it. You are—" He was about to say too old, but thought in time to stop himself. "I can ride fast, I have ridden since I was a babe in arms, except when my lameness got worse, and you can see how much better that is! I can ride on a swift horse, and— Brother John—I will bring back our book myself, no matter what I have to do to get it!"

The monk stopped so short that Hugh actually bumped into him, and stared at the boy for a long moment as if he had never seen him before.

"Perhaps thou art right," said he at length. "Thou art young and thou knowest the ways of courts and kings. I will get thee a horse now, this moment, without waiting for my Lord Ab­bot's permission. Canst go at once?"

Hugh nodded, his heart pounding. They turned their steps toward the grange and the boy did some reckoning on his fin­gers. The king's party had been gone since shortly after dawn. From the look of the sun it must be around four o'clock now. They had eleven hours start of him, at least, but with ladies in the party they must perforce move slowly. Perhaps he could catch up with them before black night set in, if he made the best of every moment. But if night came on and caught him on the lonely country roads, would he have the courage to ride on, alone and without weapons of any kind? Would he be able to ask his way sufficiently, learn which direction the cavalcade had taken, and follow along with the least possible loss of time? He wished Dickon could ride with him, but that would delay him, for the boy was no horseman. Well, he must not think of difficulties, only ride, ride with all possible speed, overtake the king and his court and recover the book!

It did not take long to find a stable man and get him a horse.

Hugh looked around the big barn eagerly, hoping to catch sight of Dickon. He would like to have told him where he was going and why, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. He took time to make sure of a comfortable saddle, then forced a hope­ful smile for Brother John, who was looking as if the founda­tions of his life had collapsed beneath him.

"The loose leaves thou didst find—" called the monk after him as he mounted and rode out through the great door, "didst say they were in the Old Church?"

Hugh nodded. "Behind a loose board, to the left as you go in." Then he was off and away, cantering over the grounds to the high road, then turning to the west as the king's party had turned. He dug his heels into his horse's flanks, spoke to him, urged him, and then leaned forward clinging with his knees as the good beast broke into a gallop.

It was smooth enough going at first, the road straight ahead with no forks nor puzzling turns, but at the very first town, Hugh must pause and ask, "Which way did the royal court go?" and thereafter, whenever he came to a branching road or a possibility of two directions, he must inquire, and thereby lose precious time. And somehow he felt that time was all im­portant.

In spite of all his haste, twilight came upon him before he had any reason to believe he had lessened the distance between the king's party and himself by any appreciable amount. And with the dusk came a soft, persistent spring rain. Hugh did not mind it at first, except that it made the oncoming night swifter and darker, but it soon began to increase in volume. At the end of an hour he was wet to the skin and his horse was clopping and splashing through thick mud that hindered his progress. He slowed down to a walk, for his steed was already showing signs of fatigue, while he himself ached in his unaccustomed muscles, for it had been a long time since he had bestrode a horse. He began to wonder what he had best do, and as the cold rain trickled down his neck and his soggy clothes grew heavier upon his shoulders, he looked about uneasily, think­ing perhaps he would have to seek shelter for the night and continue his pursuit in the morning. Until that moment he had not really thought out any plan of action; his one idea had been to get hold of the minstrel fellow, Maurice, and Master Walter Mape, and demand of them, in the name of Glastonbury, the torn Book of the Seynt Graal. It never occurred to him for a moment that it might not have been they who had taken it. The covetous look he had seen in their faces when they had been examining the book, and the feeling among many unscrupulous courtiers that they could appropriate anything they wished in the name of the king, made the whole thing seem inevitable to him. However, he would have to move warily in the matter. It would hardly do to burst in upon two full grown men, highly respected at that, and bluntly demand the return of the Glastonbury treasure. Hugh groaned aloud, unable to think of anything more definite than to get where the book was, quickly. He relinquished all thought of begging shelter some­where for the night. The farther the court got ahead of him, the harder it would be to catch up with it. He urged on his horse again; the rain beat in his face, but he lowered his head against it and rode on.

Soon the road became an indistinct line in the surrounding blackness. He had left a fairly good-sized village behind him and was now in open country, what was probably pasture land and rolling hills, though he could not make out much of anything, with the rain pouring down upon him. He held his bridle loosely, leaving it to the horse to keep to the road, which he himself could barely make out. No sound broke the stillness around him save the clopping of the horse's hoofs, the straining of the saddle leather, and the monotonous beating of the rain.

Suddenly he heard a long low whistle, his horse, startled, flung up his head, and shied. Another whistle answered, more near at hand. Then a man's voice shouted, and another; there came the sound of feet running in the mud, and out of the black dark on every side appeared men. One seized Hugh's bridle, forcing the frightened horse back almost on his haunches. The boy could make out, dimly, forms and faces, though how many or what sort of men, he could not have told.

"Who is it rides so late upon the highway?" spoke the man at his bridle in a mocking voice.
Hugh did not answer.

"Why, 'tis but a boy!" said someone else from the darkness. "Who let you out of the nursery?" the first voice spoke again.

"Speak up now, who are you, whence came you, where are you going?"

They must be footpads, robbers or criminal outlaws! Hugh was shaking with fear, but somehow managed to keep his voice calm and steady as he answered. "I be a boy out of Glaston on my way to the king's court. I have naught about me that is worth your taking."

"We will judge as to that!" said one of the voices.

"'Tis a good horse, at the least," said another.

Hands reached up and pulled Hugh roughly off his saddle.

Someone thrust a lantern in his face, which blinded him for a moment, and then enabled him to see his would-be despoilers a little more clearly. The leader, the man still holding his horse's bridle, was a tall fellow with a bold, impudent face and a cap with a curling feather in it. He regarded Hugh with a smile at once disdainful and a little curious, as the other men felt about his clothing for possible money or arms.

"And why do you ride to the king's court?" said he. "Henry the Second is no friend of mine; if thou dost love him—" He paused, leering unpleasantly.

"I do not love King Henry," Hugh answered coldly, "but he is my liege lord and I will tell him how his highways are beset with thieves who molest honest folk going upon their honest business! Sir, I bid you, in the name of the law, to let me go!"

The man laughed. "Boldly spoken, my poppy-cock! I like your manner well. But you have not yet informed me why you seek the king. I have a fancy to know."

Hugh turned away angrily. For some reason he was not afraid any more. It would be wise to conciliate these men, he knew, yet something about their bold lawlessness made him wish to resist them even where resistance was impossible. Re­fusing to answer, he stood sullenly silent.

"There is naught in his pocket save a yellow ribbon," said one of the men, flaunting the favour that the little Lady Eileen had given him, in the dim lantern light.
Hugh snatched it back and put it in his pocket again before any hand could stop him.

"Odd's blood! A lady's favour!" cried the man who was evi­dently leader. "The lad beginneth young! Let him keep the trinket and if there is naught more of worth to him set him again upon his mysterious way!"

There had been a guffaw of laughter at the ribbon, which made Hugh flush indignantly in the dark.

"Give me my horse then," said he.

"Nay, not so fast, young blade; the horse looketh to have mettle. He bides with us. Get you along on shank's mare. Know you the saying? On your own two legs!"

Someone gave him a buffet on the back, which nearly sent him sprawling. Then the lantern moved away into the dark­ness. The men's voices followed it and the tall fellow, still holding the bridle of Hugh's horse, led it down the road and away.

The rain still fell steadily, relentlessly. Hugh shivered with cold and the reaction to his fright. He could not see a yard before him; his lame foot ached and, when he sought to walk on it, a pain running through his thigh stabbed him like a knife. Feeling his way, groping, reaching for the bushes, which bordered the road to guide him, he struggled on, not knowing for a surety whether he was retracing his steps or advancing.

It was slow going, desperately slow. Hugh kept peering into the blank dark on all sides, hoping against hope that he might see a light or some sign of human habitation. At last he could go no further, twice he had fallen, his weaker leg, aching in­tolerably, had given out under him, and the second time it seemed as if he simply could not stand up on it again. He crawled into the bushes that crowded the edge of the road. At least he would find some shelter from the cold rain underneath them. It was not pouring so hard now and, when he had pushed himself well into the thick underbrush, he found a relatively dry spot in which to lie down, but his wet clothes kept him shivering, and the ground was chill. He could not sleep, but at any rate he could rest his aching body until dawn. However, he must have slept, finally, in spite of all his discomfort, for he started broad awake suddenly and saw that the night had broken and the dim twilight of dawn lightened the sky above the road.

He found his muscles stiff almost beyond endurance, but at least the sunrise told him in which direction to go. Woods and bushes still bordered each side of the narrow road as he pushed on slowly and painfully; the day grew gradually lighter and before long a warm sun slanted encouragingly upon him from between the budded trees.

As he rounded a bend in the road he was startled to come suddenly upon a horse which looked surprisingly like his own mount that the robbers had taken from him. Yes! It was indeed, and there beside him, stepping out from the underbrush was the leader of the band. Hugh stopped, uncertain whether to go on or turn and try to run away. The man, noting his hesitation, motioned to him.

"Come, boy, you have nothing to fear," he called. Hugh ad­vanced cautiously towards him. He was conscious of his limp, which was much worse than usual owing to the stiffness and fatigue in his muscles and the chill of wet clothing. He struggled against it and held his head high and proudly because of his uncomfortable self-consciousness.

"So you are going to see the king," said the man when he had got quite close. "And though you love him not, you are loyal to him?"

It seemed unnecessary to repeat the information he had given the night before, so Hugh remained silent.

"I am not so disloyal to the king, myself, as you might think, though, in sooth, I have much cause to hate him, my outlawry being the result of his highhanded, overswift judgement. But enough of that. It hath come to my knowledge that one of the king's sons is instigating a revolt against his father; would be king in his stead without waiting for death to bestow the crown lawfully upon him. I like it not, and I would warn His Majesty, yet I dare not show my face at court. Wilt thou take a written message to the king, boy?"

"Aye, that I will," said Hugh, "though in truth I owe you nothing after last night's mistreatment! But for the king— I would do that much."

The man drew from the pouch that was hanging from his belt, a soiled scrap of parchment folded into a small square.

"If thou couldst read," the man continued, "I would let thee see that the message is even as I tell thee."

"I can read," said Hugh, "but I need not. There is something in thy face that promises truth though thou art consorting with outlaws and footpads."

The man grinned in not unfriendly fashion. "Thou art a bold spoken youth," he said, giving the parchment into the boy's hands. "'Twill be quite useless to send the king's men after us, for we shall be gone past recovery in the twinkling of an eye."

"That I would never do!" said Hugh stoutly. "I know too well what it means to a man to suffer the hue and cry."

The two looked at each other, friendliness growing between them.

"For the favour that I have asked thee," the man said, "here is thy horse again. Ride straight along this forest road for an hour or better, then you will come upon a highway wider and in more constant use than this. Turn north and, before the sun has reached the high noon mark, thou wilt come to a large manor castle. It is there that the king and his court have bided the night. If they have not been minded to go further thou wilt still find them there. Farewell, boy, we shall not meet again." He vanished into the underbrush as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed him.
Hugh climbed into his saddle, thankful indeed to have his good horse between his knees again; thankful also that the out­law had not returned it to him out of pity for his lameness. He drew a long breath and straightened his shoulders. "Come on, old man," he said aloud, pressing his heels into the horse's flanks. "Come on! The sun is shining warm now; I shall soon be dry. Pick up your hoofs and hurry to the rescue of our treasure!"