“Nay, it is not possible,” said Nigel. “The wood is too thick for horses, and we cannot leave them in the road.”
“I will guard them,” cried the lady.
“Pommers is not so easily held. Do you bide here, Aylward, until you hear from me. Stir not, I command you!” So saying, Nigel, with the light, of adventure gleaming in his joyous eyes, drew his sword and plunged swiftly into the forest.
Far and fast he ran, from glade to glade, breaking through the bushes, springing over the brambles, light as a young deer, peering this way and that, straining his ears for a sound, and catching only the cry of the wood-pigeons. Still on he went, with the constant thought of the weeping woman behind and of the captured man in front. It was not until he was footsore and out of breath that he stopped with his hand to his side, and considered that his own business had still to be done, and that it was time once more that he should seek the road to Guildford.
Meantime Aylward had found his own rough means of consoling the woman in the road, who stood sobbing with her face against the side of Pommers’ saddle.
“Nay, weep not, my pretty one,” said he. “It brings the tears to my own eyes to see them stream from thine.”
“Alas! good archer, he was the best of fathers, so gentle and so kind! Had you but known him, you must have loved him.”
“Tut, tut! he will suffer no scathe. Squire Nigel will bring him back to you anon.”
“No, no, I shall never see him more. Hold me, archer, or I fall!”
Aylward pressed his ready arm round the supple waist. The fainting woman leaned with her hand upon his shoulder. Her pale face looked past him, and it was some new light in her eyes, a flash of expectancy, of triumph, of wicked joy, which gave him sudden warning of his danger.