"Clarence----"
"Yes, if we have Clarence to deal with," Master Bertie assented gravely, "we cannot afford to lose a point. We will try the ferry."
It was something gained to start dry and warm. But the women's pale faces--for little by little the fatigue, the want of rest, the fear, were telling even on the Duchess--were sad to see. I was sore and stiff myself. The wound I had received so mysteriously had bled afresh, probably during last night's fight. We needed all our courage to put a brave face on the matter, and bear up and go out again into the air, which for the first week in May was cold and nipping. Suspense and anxiety had told in various ways on all of us. While I felt a fierce anger against those who were driving us to these straits. Master Bertie was nervous and excited, alarmed for his wife and child, and inclined to see an enemy in every bush.
However, we cheered up a little when we reached the ferry and found the boat could cross without much risk. We had to go over in two detachments, and it was nearly an hour past noon before we all stood on the farther bank and bade farewell to the honest soul whose help had been of so much importance to us. He told us we had three leagues to go, and we hoped to be at rest in Santon by four o'clock.
But the three leagues turned out to be more nearly five, while the road was so founderous that we had again and again to quit it.
The evening came on, the light waned, and still we were feeling our way, so to speak--the women tired and on the verge of tears; the men muddy to the waist, savage, and impatient. It was eight o'clock, and dusk was well upon us before we caught sight of the first lights of Santon, and in fear lest the gates might be shut, pressed forward at such speed as our horses could compass.
"Do you go on!" the Duchess adjured us. "Anne and I will be safe enough behind you. Let me take the child, and do you ride on. We cannot pass the night in the fields."
The importance of securing admission was so great that Master Bertie and I agreed; and cantered on, soon outstripping our companions, and almost in the gloom losing sight of them. Dark masses of woods, the last remnants, apparently, of a forest, lay about the road we had to traverse. We were passing one of these, scarcely three hundred paces short of the town, and I was turning in the saddle to see that the ladies were following safely, when I heard Master Bertie, who was a bow-shot in front of me, give a sudden cry.
I wheeled round hastily to learn the reason, and was just in time to see three horsemen sweep into the road before him from the cover of the trees. They were so close to him--and they filled the road--that his horse carried him amongst them almost before he could check it, or so it seemed to me. I heard their loud challenge, saw his arm wave, and guessed that his sword was out. I spurred desperately to join him, giving a wild shout of encouragement as I did so. But before I could come up, or indeed cross half the distance, the scuffle was over. One man fell headlong from his saddle, one horse fled riderless down the road, and at sight of this, or perhaps of me, the others turned tail without more ado and made off, leaving Master Bertie in possession of the field. The whole thing had passed in the shadow of the wood in less than half a minute. When I drew rein by him he was sheathing his sword. "Is it Clarence?" I cried eagerly.
"No, no; I did not see him. I think not," he answered. He was breathing hard and was very much excited. "They were poor swordsmen, for Spaniards," he added--"very poor, I thought."