Three days later the fugitives, footsore and hungry, came in sight of the blue waters of the English Channel.
"What village is that I see yonder?" asked Gripwell, addressing a peasant who was toiling along the road, bent double under the weight of a huge basket filled with seaweed.
"'Tis St. Valery-en-Caux, monsieur."
"Ma foi, comrades, we are well out of our way," remarked the man-at-arms in order to avoid suspicion. "'Tis to Abbeville that we would go."
"Of a surety thou speakest truly," assented the peasant. "It lieth far along the shore, though I have ne'er set foot in the town."
"This village will serve our purpose," quoth Gripwell, as the peasant resumed his way. "We must needs lie hidden till dusk; then, unless I am much at fault, we can with ease take possession of one of those fishing-boats I see yonder."
"Canst manage one of these craft?" asked Oswald anxiously.
"The wind blows fair. E'en though I be not a seaman, I am a man of parts. By the help of St. George I fear not that the task be beyond me."
Encouraged by their comrade's self-reliance the lads took heart. Even though they were compelled to wait till night, the old soldier was not idle.
Leaving the two youths snugly sheltered in a field of barley Gripwell went off on a foraging expedition, returning presently with three large rye loaves and a bottle of wine.