The sun had arisen for some hours when the solitude of the forest was broken by the tread of three strangers—travellers, who trod one of its most verdant glades. The one was a brother preacher of the order of Saint Francis. The second, a knight clad in hunting attire. The third, the mayor, the headman of the borough of Hamelsham.
“The cottage lies here away,” said the first. “We shall see the roof when we turn the end of the avenue of beeches.”
“Do you not smell an odour unusual to the forest?”
“The scent of something burnt or burning?”
“I have perceived it.”
“Ah, here it is,” and the three stopped short. They had just turned the corner to which they had alluded. A thin smoke still arose from the spot where the cottage had stood.
They all paused; then, without a word, hurried on ward by a common impulse. They only found the smoking embers of the dwelling they had come to seek.
“This is Drogo’s doing,” said Ralph of Herstmonceux.
“Could he have heard of our intentions?” said the mayor.
“No, but—he might have learned that poor Madge was a penitent, and then—” said Martin.