he stranger's presence, woke and scattered. Those who had
dismounted began scrambling into the saddle; the rest rode in pursuit;
but they had to make the circuit of the consecrated ground, and it was
plain their quarry would escape them. Hatch, roaring an oath, put his
horse at the hedge, to head him off; but the beast refused, and sent his
rider sprawling in the dust. And though he was up again in a moment, and
had caught the bridle, the time had gone by, and the fugitive had gained
too great a lead for any hope of capture.

The wisest of all had been Dick Shelton. Instead of starting in a vain
pursuit, he had whipped his cross-bow from his back, bent it, and set a
quarrel to the string; and now, when the others had desisted, he turned
to Bennet and asked if he should shoot.

"Shoot! shoot!" cried the priest, with sanguinary violence.

"Cover him, Master Dick," said Bennet. "Bring me him down like a ripe
apple."

The fugitive was now within but a few leaps of safety; but this last
part of the meadow ran very steeply up-hill; and the man ran slower in
proportion. What with the greyness of the falling night, and the uneven
movements of the runner, it was no easy aim; and as Dick levelled his
bow, he felt a kind of pity, and a half desire that he might miss. The
quarrel sped.

The man stumbled and fell, and a great cheer arose from Hatch and the
pursuers. But they were counting their corn before the harvest. The man
fell lightly; he was lightly afoot again, turned and waved his cap in a
bravado, and was out of sight next moment in the margin of the wood.

"And the plague go with him!" cried Bennet. "He has thieves' heels; he
can run, by St. Banbury! But you touched him, Master Shelton; he has
stolen your quarrel, may he never have good I grudge him less!"

"Nay, but what made he by the church?" asked Sir Oliver. "I am shrewdly
afeared there has been mischief here. Clipsby, good fellow, get ye down
from your horse, and search thoroughly among the yews."

Clipsby was gone but a little while ere he returned, carrying a paper.

"This writing was pinned to the church door," he said, handing it to the
parson. "I found naught else, sir parson."

"Now, by the power of Mother Church," cried Sir Oliver, "but this runs
hard on sacrilege! For the king's good pleasure, or the lord of the
manor--well! But that every run-the-hedge in a green jerkin should
fasten papers to the chancel door--nay, it runs hard on sacrilege, hard;