Dickon's tongue was not used to words of thanks, and he had turned in silence to go out when the monk called to him, and then came forward to the outer door.
"You were to kill me—like 'the others,'" he said, with a grim smile curling his lips. "What others?"
"Two of Sir Watty's men, whom I smote down as they would have fallen upon him," said Dickon, pride struggling with apprehension.
The monk smiled at this outright, and departing again abruptly, returned with a pasty in a dish, enfolded in cloths.
"Now God be with you!" he said, heartily. "Hither bring your strange gossip on the morrow, if he find his legs."
Once outside the rock-girt postern, Dickon set to running, his arms full with the burden of the friar's gifts, and his heart all aglow with joy. It was a wearisome enough ascent, and the darkness of even was drawing ever closer over the earth, and the lad's empty stomach cried aloud at every furlong for food; but still he pressed on.
When at last he had gained the point on the road whence his quest had begun, the light had altogether failed. Then only he struck his flint, and set fire to some leaves. From these he kindled a knot of dry branches, and with this for a torch pushed his way into the woods.
"Andreas," he called out, when at last he stood above his friend, "here is fire and food!"
The white face among the leaves was the color of the snow he had left behind him. The eyes were half-open, but no answering light came into them. The boy lay as if dead.
With a startled cry Dickon let fall his spoils, and dropping to his knees, lifted the other's head up against his waist. It twisted inertly upon the thin neck and hung forward. Was life truly gone?