"Too late, boy."
The words came hollow as from a vault, and Hugh hurled himself in the direction of the voice; but at the first step he ran against the table which barred the hut midway from the entrance. A red mist of anger enveloped him. He hacked and slashed and hewed at the empty air. It was Matteo's voice which brought him back to sanity.
"They have gone," panted the jongleur.
"Whither?" shouted Hugh. "They could not have passed us. A light, make a light!"
"Here, lord," exclaimed Beppo, and the gondolier struck flint and steel above a pitch-pine torch.
The wood flared smokily, revealing the shattered interior of the hut, a single white-robed figure sprawling in a pool of blood where Beppo's knife had dropped him. In the end wall, which backed against the overhanging dune, a door gaped open.
"After them," commanded Hugh, and he started to lead the way.
But Beppo caught his sleeve.
"With permission, Magnificence," said the gondolier. "That is no more than a passage through the sand which comes out by the water. They will be in their gondolas by now."
"Then in St. Cuthbert's name, let us follow as quick as we may."