Then divesting himself of the long robe which he had borrowed from the lad, he handed it to Hugh, and, taking the oars, rowed away clad in his rich, fantastic garb which now, as at first, could be seen by all. He rowed away, and for a while the three whom he had left behind heard the soughing of the innumerable wings that went ever with him, after which came silence.
Silence, but not for long, for presently from the borders of the great canal into which his skiff must enter, rose shouts of fear and rage, near by at first, then farther and farther off, till these too were lost in silence.
“Oh! Sir Hugh!” sobbed poor David Day, “who and what is that dreadful man?”
“I think his name is Death,” answered Hugh solemnly, while Dick nodded his head but said nothing.
“Then we must die,” went on David in his terror, “and I am not fit to die.”
“I think not,” said Hugh again. “Be comforted. Death has passed us by. Only be warned also and, as he bade you, say nothing of all that you have heard and seen.”
“By Death himself, I’ll say nothing for my life’s sake,” he replied faintly, for he was shaking in every limb.
Then they walked up the street to the yard door. As they went Hugh asked Dick what it was that he had in his mind as a mark for the arrow that Murgh had shot, that arrow which to his charmed sight had seemed to rush over Venice like a flake of fire.
“I’ll not tell you, master,” answered Dick, “lest you should think me madder than I am, which to-night would be very mad indeed. Stay, though, I’ll tell David here, that he may be a witness to my folly,” and he called the young man to him and spoke with him apart.
Then they unlocked the courtyard gate and entered the house by the kitchen door, as it chanced quite unobserved, for now all the servants were abed. Indeed, of that household none ever knew that they had been outside its walls this night, since no one saw them go or return, and Sir Geoffrey and his lady thought that they had retired to their chamber.