Half an hour later, Roger and Oswald mounted. His uncle sent two of his
men with them, saying that it would look strange were one man to come,
with two horses, to Parton; but that two, saying that their masters
would follow, would seem a more probable tale.

"They will, if they can, find some quiet farmhouse a mile out of the
village, and there get lodgings for themselves and beasts. You can
arrange with them to take up their station on the road, so that you
can, if needs be, find them."

It was with a sigh that Roger flung himself into the saddle. It was not
the horse on which he had ridden there, but a strong, shaggy pony.

"He does not look much," one of the men said, "but there is no better
horse, of the sort, in the country. He has both speed and bottom, and
can carry you up or down hill, and is as sure-footed as a goat."

Roger had assented to the change, for his own horse was as unlike one
that a monk would have bestrode as could be well imagined. He had
obtained a stout staff, to which the village smith had added two or
three iron rings at each end, rendering it a formidable weapon, indeed,
in such hands.

"It reminds me of our start for Dunbar, master," he said. "One might
have a worse weapon than this;" and he swung it round his head, in
quarterstaff fashion; "still, I prefer a mace."

"That staff will do just as well, Roger. A man would need a hard skull,
indeed, to require more than one blow from such a weapon."

Now that Adam Armstrong had done all that there was to do, he went
again to the cottage where Allan lay. He had paid several visits there,
in the afternoon; but there was nought for him to do, and no comfort to
be gained from the white face of the insensible lad. Meg assured him,
however, that he was going on as well as could be expected.

"He is in a torpor, at present," she said; "and may so lie for two or
three days; but so long as there is no fever he will, I hope, know you
when he opens his eyes. There is nought to do but to keep wet cloths
round his head, and to put on a fresh poultice over the wound, every
hour."

Now Armstrong took his place by his son's pallet. For a time, the work
of making preparations for Oswald's departure, and of sending off
messages to his friends, had prevented his thoughts from dwelling upon
his loss. Throughout the night, the picture of his home, as he had left
it when he rode out that morning; and the thought that it was now an
empty shell, his wife