For two weary nights and days the Mare had been employed thus, but as yet without a shadow of success. Foy and Martin sat in the boat staring at each other gloomily; indeed Foy’s face was piteous to see.
“What are you thinking of, master?” asked Martin presently.
“I am thinking,” he answered, “that even if we find her now it will be too late; whatever was to be done, murder or marriage, will be done.”
“Time to trouble about that when we have found her,” said Martin, for he knew not what else to say, and added, “listen, I hear footsteps.”
Foy drew apart two of the bundles of reeds and looked out into the driving rain.
“All right,” he said, “it is Martha and a man.”
Martin let his hand fall from the hilt of the sword Silence, for in those days hand and sword must be near together. Another minute and Martha and her companion were in the boat.
“Who is this man?” asked Foy.
“He is a friend of mine named Marsh Jan.”
“Have you news?”