Part 2 (2/2)
”Safe for the time,” commented Brother Angelique, as the boat shot behind a sheltering bank.
”But how about thy safety?” asked the fugitive.
”By St. Edward, 'tis not to be thought of,” replied the monk, thrusting back his sleeve, which in his exertions had slipped down.
”They seek not us.”
”But thou hast aided a fugitive from justice.”
”Nay, that I wot not of. Besides, how am I to know that these men are the officers of justice They might well be but water-pikers for aught I know....Oh!”
An exclamation of pain interrupted his words, for an arrow, shot haphazard from the bend of the creek over the intervening bank, had pierced his forearm betwixt elbow and wrist, while another shaft trembled with its head buried in the thwart.
”On, Brother Petrox! On! 'Tis but a small matter,” he gasped, and as the other monk seized his companion's oar, the wounded man, shutting his eyes tightly, snapped off the head of the arrow with his free hand and drew the broken shaft from the wound.
A gush of blood followed, but the brave monk, gripping the wounded member to stop the crimson flow, never ceased to urge the rower to greater effort, while ever and again a shaft shot by their still invisible pursuers flew perilously close to their heads.
At length the boat grounded on the hard bed of the channel, and Brother Petrox called to Revyngton to jump out. Wading through the shallow water the two started for the sh.o.r.e, leaving the wounded monk calmly seated in the deserted craft.
From the mud hovels of the village of Ashlett wimpled women and rough-haired children looked interestedly at the two runners, the layman in his travel-stained apparel and the monk in his sombre garb.
Men there were none, for the hours of toil had called them to the fields or out on the waters, where they sought a livelihood by fis.h.i.+ng; but had there been, the sight of the two speeding along would hardly have excited anything but curiosity in the minds of these dull-witted sons of the soil.
”I can go with thee no farther,” panted the monk, as they reached the cross-roads. ”Follow yonder path, and G.o.d be with thee.” And as Revyngton sped onwards towards the rolling expanse of purple heather, he saw the solitary figure of his benefactor waving encouragingly towards the distant and invisible goal.
Settling down to a steady pace, the fugitive kept doggedly on his way, his eyes fixed on a distant clump of trees that marked the brow of the hill overlooking the valley of the Exe where lay the abbey.
Narrower and narrower became the road, till it deteriorated into a mere footpath, the p.r.i.c.kly gorse encroaching on either side and hurting his feet as he ran. Yet, spurred onward by renewed hope, his strength seemed well-nigh inexhaustible.
Suddenly, from behind a low heather-clad hillock at the side of the road, four wild-looking men sprang up and barred his progress.
”Hold, stranger!” shouted one, brandis.h.i.+ng a club. ”Whither goest thou? Hast aught in thy scrip that we would relieve thee of, for the lighter thou art the easier thou'lt run.”
”I have nothing in the world. Let me pa.s.s, I pray; 'tis a matter that brooks no delay.”
”Nay, not so fast, young master. What is thine errand?”
”My errand?” replied Revyngton, with a mirthless laugh. ”I seek sanctuary.”
”Art without the pale of the law?”
”Of that there is little doubt.”
”Then throw in thy lot with us. A free life in the forest glades, with many a weighty scrip to balance the lightness of our minds, is better than being cooped up in yonder monastery.”
The fugitive shook his head.
”Nay, 'tis not to my liking.”
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