"Oh, my ring, my ring!" whined the girl as he slipt the chain over
her. He did not seem to hear her, but snatched her up in his arms as
if she had been a doll and set her on his horse. He swung himself into
the saddle behind her as he had swung himself out of it, reined up
short and turned. The three men rode out with their burden. When they
had gone the Deacon (who got a mitre for it) solemnly laid the fallen
host between his lord's lips. The act, at once pious and sensible,
brought up the congregation from hell to earth again. At such times
routine is the only saving thing.
Once free of the Abbey precincts the three horsemen forded Wan. At a
signal pre-arranged one of them fell back to keep watch over the
river. Galors went forward with one in his company on to the heath,
dropped him after three or four hours' steady going, and rode on
still. His third man was to meet him at the edge of Martle Brush.
Never a word had he spoken since his great "Entra per me!" but
without that the act had been enough to tell his prize, that whatever
her chains had been before, the sword-stroke had riveted them closer.
There had been no chain like his mailed arm round her body.
Nothing could be done. Indeed she was as yet paralyzed; for wild work
as had been done in her sight, this was savagery undreamed. She could
get no comfort, she never thought of Prosper. Even Prosper, her lord,
could not stand before such a force as this. As for good Saint
Isidore, the pious man became a shade, and vanished with his Creator
into the dark.
Night came on, but a low yellow moon burnt the fringe of the rising
woods. They were retracing almost the very stones of the track she and
Prosper had followed a year before.
Matt's intake they passed, she saw a light in the window. The heath
loomed ghostly before them, with the dark bank of trees rising
steadily as they neared. Athwart them rose also the moon; there was
promise of a fine still night. They entered the trees, heading for
Martle Brush.
Suddenly Galors pulled up, listening intently. There was no sound save
that strange murmur the night has (as if the whole concave of heaven
were the hollow of a shell), and the secret rustling of the trees.
Still Galors listened. It was so quiet you might almost have heard two
hearts beating.
As an underchant, sinister accompaniment to the voices of the night,
there came to them the muffled pulsing of a horse's hoofs; a quick and
regular sound--a horse galloping evenly with plenty in hand.