“'T is not thy corn, 't is thy neighbours',” Calote admonished, but he had no ears for her; and she, to save her breath for running, stilled her speech, and left him.
The sunlight struck level athwart the tree-trunks and along the wood-road that led twixt the mill and the village.
“'T is now about the going down of the sun,” she thought, as she hurried on. “They will be gathered at the cross, Peter, and the parson, and the peddler, and all those others, awaiting till I come to tell a tale and learn them of the Brotherhood.”
She stood still for breath, and heard a cry.
“They have caught the miller afore he 's gone. Now they 'll be busy with the pillage of the mill, for a little.”
She started on, and stopped irresolute.
“When they come to the cross at sunset, they have their hoes, their axes, and hammers with them; some of them will be shooting at the butts with arrows for pastime at the end of the day.”
She put the horn to her lips and blew a long blast.
“There will not be so many men in that ship. Better that ours should come forth to meet them, driving them backward into the sea.”
She blew another blast, and another.