Gil. Not a penny; go your ways,
Or night will reach you ere you reach your homes.
[Exeunt Farmers.
Man. Gil, while you talk’d with them, I’ve heard a sound
As of pursuit—listen!—and many too.
Gil. Let us up higher then!
Man. Beware, the trees
Will whisper of our whereabout.
Gil. Then here
Behind the rocks that tell no tales.