Hill was to join them, and tell them the result.
Now, as it happens, Little went home rather late that night; so these confederates waited, alternately hoping and fearing, a considerable time.
Presently, something mysterious occurred that gave them a chill. An arrow descended, as if from the clouds, and stuck quivering on a grave not ten yards from them. The black and white feathers shone clear in the moonlight.
To Coventry it seemed as if Heaven was retaliating on him.
The more prosaic but quick-witted cutler, after the first stupefaction, suspected it was the very arrow destined for Little, and said so.
“And Heaven flings it back to us,” said Coventry, and trembled in every limb.
“Heaven has naught to do in it. The fool has got drunk, and shot it in the air. Anyway, it mustn't stick there to tell tales.”
Cole vaulted over the church-yard wall, drew it out of the grave, and told Coventry to hide it.
“Go you home,” said he. “I'll find out what this means.”
Hill's unexpected assailant dragged him back so suddenly and violently that the arrow went up at an angle of forty-five, and, as the man loosed the string to defend himself, flew up into the sky, and came down full a hundred yards from the place.