All the rest withdrew; and many were the eager questions of the monks, as to how the accident had happened. Richard of Woodville told the tale simply as it was--the two shrieks that they had heard, the discovery of the body in the water, and its recovery from the stream.
"Ay, she screamed when she fell in, and when she first rose," said one of the monks; "drowning people always do."
Woodville made no reply; for he would not give his own suspicions to others; but Hal of Hadnock asked him, in a low voice, "Did you not hear the galloping of a horse, on the other side, as we came near?"
"I did," answered Richard, in the same tone; "I did, too plainly."
In about a quarter of an hour, the Abbot came forth, and all made way for him.
"What hope?" asked Woodville, looking into his uncle's face for speedier information.
"None!" replied the Abbot. "How has this chanced, my son? there are marks of violence."
The same tale was told over again; but this time Richard of Woodville added the fact of a horse's feet having been heard; and the Abbot mused profoundly.
"I will have the body carried down to the Abbey," he said, at length. "You, Richard, speed to my brother, and break the tidings there. Come down with him to the Abbey, and we will consult. Bring Dacre, too.
"Dacre has been gone more than two hours," answered Richard of Woodville; "but I will seek my uncle Philip," and he turned towards the door.