"Why hast thou not smitten him, and ridden thyself of 'so frail an encumbrance'?"
"I could not."
"Did I not tell thee so long syne? ah, ha!"
"Tell me, thou witch, why does the death of a peasant rend my very heart? Tell me, didst thou not give me a philter, a potion or something, when I was here? My heart burns—what is it?"
"Brian Fitz-Count, there is one who can solve the riddle—seek him."
"Who is he?"
"Ride at once to Dorchester Abbey—waste no time—ask to see Father Alphege, he shall tell thee all. When is the boy to die?"
"At sundown."
"Then there is no time to be lost. It is now the ninth hour; thou hast but three hours. Ride, ride, man! if he die before thy return, thy heart-strings will crack. Ride, man, ride! if ever thou didst ride—Dorchester first, Father Alphege, then Wallingford Castle."
Brian rushed from the cavern—he gave full rein to his horse—he drove his spurs deep into the sides of the poor beast.