With that the faithful servant thrust the broad pieces that yet remained of the king’s gift into the gipsire Sibyll wore at her girdle, and then closed and rebarred the door before they could detain her.
“It is base to leave her,” said the scholar-gentleman.
The noble Sibyll could not refute her father. Afar they heard the tramping of feet; suddenly, a dark red light shot up into the blue air, a light from the flame of many torches.
“The wizard, the wizard! Death to the wizard, who would starve the poor!” yelled forth, and was echoed by a stern hurrah.
Adam stood motionless, Sibyll by his side.
“The wizard and his daughter!” shrieked a sharp single voice, the voice of Graul the tymbestere.
Adam turned. “Fly, my child,—they now threaten thee. Come, come, come!” and, taking her by the hand, he hurried her across the fields, skirting the hedge, their shadows dodging, irregular and quaint, on the starlit sward. The father had lost all thought, all care but for the daughter’s life. They paused at last, out of breath and exhausted: the sounds at the distance were lulled and hushed. They looked towards the direction of the home they had abandoned, expecting to see the flames destined to consume it reddening the sky; but all was dark,—or, rather, no light save the holy stars and the rising moon offended the majestic heaven.
“They cannot harm the poor old woman; she hath no lore. On her gray hairs has fallen not the curse of men’s hate!” said Warner.
“Right, Father! when they found us flown, doubtless the cruel ones dispersed. But they may search yet for thee. Lean on me, I am strong and young. Another effort, and we gain the safe coverts of the Chase.”
While yet the last word hung on her lips, they saw, on the path they had left, the burst of torch-light, and heard the mob hounding on their track. But the thick copses, with their pale green just budding into life, were at hand. On they fled. The deer started from amidst the entangled fern, but stood and gazed at them without fear; the playful hares in the green alleys ceased not their nightly sports at the harmless footsteps; and when at last, in the dense thicket, they sunk down on the mossy roots of a giant oak, the nightingales overhead chanted as if in melancholy welcome. They were saved!