"Ay! but I do, though, bravely. Thou art the Saxon with the price of blood on thy head, whom the Normans have chased these three days, from beyond Rotherham. They lie five miles hence on the hither side the Lon, and inquired after thee at twilight. But fear not for me. Only cross the sands early; the tide will answer with the first gray glimmer; and thou art safe in Westmoreland. And so God speed thee, brother."
A mile or two farther brought him to the verge of the wet sands, and there in the last brushwood he laid him down, almost too weary to be anxious for the morrow.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE SANDS.
Splendor in heaven, and horror on the main!
Sunshine and storm at once—a troubled day;
Clouds roll in brightness, and descend in rain.
Now the waves rush into the rocky bay,
Shaking the eternal barriers of the land;
And ocean's face is like a battle-plain,
Where giant demons combat hand to hand.