"Yea. Turn to thy left hand at the cross-roads."
"Also, I prithee, give me a draught of milk."
"Begone, for a worthless clown! Begone, I say, or the dog shall fly at thee," she shrieked, wild with fury; but Revyngton heeded her not, and seizing a small earthenware pitcher, drained its contents, then turning on his heel, he resumed his fearsome journey.
"Haste, Tom, run up to the village and get help!" shouted the woman. "'Tis a gadabout churl, or a riever, or worse," and as the fugitive ran he heard the farm-servant making off towards Botley, while the woman unloosed the dog.
Ere Revyngton had gone a bowshot from the cottage the cur was barking and yelping at his heels, showing its teeth, but fearing to close, till at length it drew off, leaving the man to wonder at the churlishness of the hard-faced woman compared with the reception of wayfarers on his father's manor in Devon, where meat and drink were ever at the disposal of even the most humble stranger.
At the brow of the hill he saw the tower of the abbey amid the trees a mile or more away, with the beautiful expanse of Southampton Water as a fitting background to the peaceful scene. Yet the fugitive had neither time nor inclination to appreciate the natural surroundings; to him the abbey meant rest and safety, and with renewed hope he sped towards the monastic buildings.
Weary and footsore he reached the outer door, his senses reeling with the effects of his exertions. Seeing his plight the porter gave him wine, and sent a lay brother to summon the abbot.
As the venerable head of the establishment appeared, Revyngton raised himself with an effort and knelt before him.
"Thy blessing, father."
"Benedicite, my son; what wouldst thou?"