I shall keep
you, Bennet. I must have a good man to rest me on in this day of black
arrows. 'The arrow that flieth by day,' saith the evangel; I have no
mind of the context; nay, I am a sluggard priest, I am too deep in men's
affairs. Well, let us ride forth, Master Hatch. The jackmen should be at
the church by now."

So they rode forward down the road, with the wind after them, blowing
the tails of the parson's cloak; and behind them, as they went, clouds
began to arise and blot out the sinking sun. They had passed three of
the scattered houses that make up Tunstall hamlet, when, coming to a
turn, they saw the church before them. Ten or a dozen houses clustered
immediately round it; but to the back the churchyard was next the
meadows. At the lych-gate, near a score of men were gathered, some in
the saddle, some standing by their horses' heads. They were variously
armed and mounted; some with spears, some with bills, some with bows,
and some bestriding plough-horses, still splashed with the mire of the
furrow; for these were the very dregs of the country, and all the better
men and the fair equipments were already with Sir Daniel in the field.

"We have not done amiss, praised be the cross of Holywood! Sir Daniel
will be right well content," observed the priest, inwardly numbering the
troop.

"Who goes? Stand! if ye be true!" shouted Bennet.

A man was seen slipping through the churchyard among the yews; and at
the sound of this summons he discarded all concealment, and fairly took
to his heels for the forest. The men at the gate, who had been hitherto
unaware of the 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 crossbow 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, Mas