The sun was high as they came to the western road that led to the ford at Thornaby, but upon the edge of the forest Beltane stopped of a sudden to stare up at an adjacent tree.
"What is't, master?" questioned Roger, halting beside him.
"An arrow—and new-shot by the look of it!" said Beltane, gloomily.
"Aye master, and it hath travelled far—see, it hath scarce pierced the bark!"
"'Twas shot from the brush yonder, methinks," said Beltane, pointing to the dense underwood that skirted the opposite side of the dusty highway. "Reach me it down, Roger!" so saying Beltane stooped and hove Roger aloft until he could grasp and draw the arrow from the tree.
"Here is no woodsman's shaft, master!" quoth Roger, turning the missile over in his hand ere he gave it to Beltane, "no forester doth wing his shafts so."
"True!" nodded Beltane, frowning at the arrow. "Walkyn, Ulf! here hath been an ambushment, methinks—'tis a likely place for such. Let our company scatter and search amid the fern hereabouts—"
But even as he spake came a cry, a clamour of voices, and Prat the archer came frowning and snapping his restless fingers.
"My lord," said he, "yonder doth lie my good comrade Martin and three other fellows of my archer-company that marched with Sir Benedict, and all dead, lord, slain by arrows all four."
"Show me!" said Beltane.