The Franciscan minded not, and the little figure went on, pulling with all his might. Beatrice sat trembling with affright. [[524]]It was dark, but she heard the sentinel’s step running along the wall, as if following the sound of the oars. He halted; the click of the spring of his arbaleste reached her ear, and the bolt that it gave wings to had nearly reached her too, for it struck with great force on the inside of the boat that was opposite to the man who shot it. The rower pulled off farther into the stream. The sentinel’s cry for raising the guard was heard; but the tide was now running down, and it bore the little boat on its bosom with so much swiftness that they soon lost all sound of the alarm.
“Tell me, oh, tell me who art thou, and whither dost thou carry me?” cried Beatrice, her heart sinking with alarm as she beheld the walls of the city left behind them.
“Daughter, this is neither the time nor the place for the explanation thou dost lack,” replied the Franciscan; “methinks I do hear the sound of oars behind us. Let me aid thee, Bobbin,” cried he, taking one of the oars, and beginning to pull desperately.
The united strength of the two rowers now made the little boat fly like an arrow, and in a short time the eyes of the Lady Beatrice were attracted by five lights that burned bright in the middle of the river, and hung in the form of St. Andrew’s cross.
“St. Francis be praised,” cried the Franciscan; “we are now near the bark that is to give us safety. Pull, Bobbin, my brave heart.”
The lights grew in magnitude in the Lady Beatrice’s eyes, and the water beneath the shadowy hull blazed with the bright reflection.
“Hoy, the skiff!” cried a stern voice in a north-country accent.
“St. Andrew!” replied the Franciscan.
“Welcome, St. Andrew,” said the voice from the vessel. “Hast thou sped, holy father?”
“Yea, by the blessing of St. Francis and the Virgin,” replied the Franciscan.