“The horses are tired, we need fresh steeds for that,” said one of the guard.
“Gramercy, take them from the Hall,” he roared.
But no one would find the keys of the stable and Mistress Mowbray, coming up a moment later, said in acid tones, “Take your own horses, Sir Priest, warrant or no warrant you cannot steal, and if you touch my horses I will have you hanged as a common horse-thief.”
She looked at him triumphantly, the exercise of power delighted her and she even felt a glow of reflected glory from Aline’s achievement. “We know how to manage these interlopers,” she thought; “I am mistress of this situation. Aline, you have done very well.”
Father Austin looked cowed, and the sullen people stood in the way and blocked the road. One managed to secure a stirrup, another broke a girth, while a third removed a halter altogether.
“You shall suffer for this,” said the priests, when they at length reached the horses; but the attitude of the crowd was so menacing that they became afraid for their very lives and finally had to fall back upon entreaty before they were allowed to go away at all.
The result was that the fugitives had two full hours start on good horses, before Father Austin could get his little troop under way.
“Had God sent a deliverer from the skies?” mused Mistress Mowbray, as she sat and pondered the strange events of the day.