"They overtake us," quoth he, speaking for the first time since the abbey gates had closed behind him. "See, a bowman makes ready!"
Gradually the distance between the boats lessened, but the monks' craft was now close to the creek, and Revyngton saw in front an apparently closed-in basin surrounded by a high bank of slimy mud. A few more strokes and the boat was within the creek, which wound its sinuous way up to the shore, while the little waves caused by their rapid motion through the water lapped the sides of the narrow channel.
Just as they were about to round the first bend the bowman let loose, and an arrow sung over their heads and struck the mud with a dull swish. Revyngton instinctively bent his head, but his companions, though men of peace, barely took notice of the deadly shaft.
"Safe for the time," commented Brother Angelique, as the boat shot behind a sheltering bank.
"But how about thy safety?" asked the fugitive.
"By St. Edward, 'tis not to be thought of," replied the monk, thrusting back his sleeve, which in his exertions had slipped down. "They seek not us."
"But thou hast aided a fugitive from justice."
"Nay, that I wot not of. Besides, how am I to know that these men are the officers of justice They might well be but water-pikers for aught I know.... Oh!"
An exclamation of pain interrupted his words, for an arrow, shot haphazard from the bend of the creek over the intervening bank, had pierced his forearm betwixt elbow and wrist, while another shaft trembled with its head buried in the thwart.
"On, Brother Petrox! On! 'Tis but a small matter," he gasped, and as the other monk seized his companion's oar, the wounded man, shutting his eyes tightly, snapped off the head of the arrow with his free hand and drew the broken shaft from the wound.