hat then?" and again he fell upon his dreaming.

For the best part of an hour the boy had sat almost motionless, looking
out across the water. Then, suddenly, he turned his head; his ear had
caught a suspicious sound, perhaps the dip of an oar-blade. Thrusting
the field-glass and book into his bosom, he drew the bow towards him and
listened. All was still, except for the chatter of a blue-jay, and after
a moment or so his attention again relaxed. But his eyes, instead of
losing themselves in the distance as before, remained fixed upon the
sand at his feet. Fortunately so, or he must have failed to notice the
long shadow that hung poised for an instant above his right shoulder and
then darted downward, menacing, deadly.

An infinitesimal fraction of a second, yet within that brief space
Constans had contrived to fling himself, bodily, forward and sideways
from his seat. The spear-shaft grazed his shoulder and the blade buried
itself in the sand. The treacherous assailant, overbalanced by the force
of his thrust, toppled over the log and fell heavily, ignominiously, at
the boy's side. In the indefinite background some one laughed
melodiously.

Constans was up and out upon the forest track before his clumsy opponent
had begun to recover his breath. It was almost too easy, and then he all
but cannoned plump into a horseman who sat carelessly in his saddle,
half hidden by the bole of a thousand-year oak. The cavalier, gathering
up his reins, called upon the fugitive to stop, but Constans, without
once looking behind, ran on, actuated by the ultimate instinct of a
hunted animal, zigzagging as much as he dared, and glancing from side to
side for a way of escape.

But none offered. On the right ran the wall of the stockade,
impenetrable and unscalable, and it was a long two miles to the north
gate. On the left was the water and behind him the enemy. A few hundred
yards and he must inevitably be brought to a standstill, breathless and
defenceless. Yet he kept on; there was nothing else to do.

The horseman followed, putting his big blood-bay into a leisurely
hand-gallop. A sword-thrust would settle the business quite as
effectually as a shot from his cross-bow, and he would not be obliged to
risk the loss of a bolt, a consideration of importance in this latter
age when good artisan work is scarce and correspondingly precious.

Constans could run, and he was sound of wind and limb. Yet, as the
thunder of hoofs grew louder,