"God forgive me," cried the lacerated wretch, "but I know it all! Yet
tell me what else she said."
"There was little more," said Mald, "for the monk pulled at her, and
she went as she came."
"Have they passed an hour gone?" said Prosper in a dry whisper.
"Ah, and more."
"God be with you," said he; "pray for her."
"Pray!" mocked the crone in a rage; "and pray what will that do?"
"No more than I, mother, just now. God is all about us. Farewell!"
And he was gone amid flying peats.
Midway of the heath a second knight met him, challenged him, and
charged. Prosper was not for small game that night. His head grew
cooler, as always, for his haste, his arm steady as a rock. Thereupon
he ran his man through the breastbone. He broke his spear, but took
the other's, and away. At the edge of the wood the moon-rays gleamed a
third time upon mail. It was Galors' last sentry, who hallooed to stay
him. Prosper was on him before he was ready, and hurled him from the
saddle. He never moved. Prosper galloped through the wood.
The snapping branches, thunder of hoofs, labouring belly and hard-won
breath of his beast, more than all the wind that sang in his ears,
prevented him from hearing what Galors and his prey had already heard.
He went headlong down the slope of the ground; but before anything
more welcome he caught the music of the brook in the bottom.
There was a gap in the trees just there; the moon swam in the midst
large and golden. Then at last he saw what he wanted, and knew that
the hour had come.