The meadows were half under water: the Carleton Dyke had overflowed its banks, and ere we had well dipped into the low fields, our feet were sinking at every step into the marshy ground, or splashing loudly into some pool that stared at us in the faint light. ’Twas bad going, i’ faith, but neither of us paid much heed to it, our minds being set on gaining the road beyond. But when we came to the Dyke itself, which we were bound to cross, we found ourselves in a pretty position, for it had widened a good six yards, and there was no means of crossing it nearer than the ford, which was too near Hardwick village for my liking or our safety. “There’s only one way,” says I, “I must carry you over, cousin, otherwise you will not get across dryshod.”
“I have not been dryshod since we came into these meadows,” says she, “and methinks you’ll have no easy task in carrying me across there.”
“Why,” says I, “I don’t look for ease in adventures of this sort,” and I stepped into the Dyke and took her from the bank into my arms. “Faith!” says I, “I had no idea that you were so heavy, cousin. ’Tis well that I have but a half-score of yards to carry you.”
“Set me down!” says she, trying to slip out of my grasp. “I had rather be drowned——”
But what else she meant to say was lost to me, for at that moment there rang out a musket shot that had been fired somewhere in the fields over which we had already passed, and ere the sound died away, it was followed by another discharge.
“They cannot have discovered our flight!” says I, and pushed on through the water to set her down on dryer ground. “Now, cousin,” I says, taking her hand, “we must run for it. There’s so little shelter in these meadows that they can see us at fifty yards’ distance, but if we can make the road, we can hide behind the trees under Went Hill, if they follow us. And so run, cousin,” I says, “run, if you’ve no mind to fall into their hands.”
Now there was then but one field ’twixt us and the road, and that not a very wide one, but they had been stubbing trees in it that autumn, and as ill-luck would have it, I ran in my haste upon a root that had been left half-out of the ground, and so twisted my ankle that I fell, groaning with pain. “I believe my leg’s broke,” says I, when I could speak. “Egad, cousin, was ever aught so unlucky! And what shall we do now?”
“First find out where you are hurt,” says she, and kneels down by me in the wet grass. “Try to move your leg,” she says. “’Tis not broke, I think—you must have twisted your foot, cousin.”
“I am stopped,” says I, pulling myself up and trying to walk. “I am not good for twenty yards,” and I took her arm and endeavoured to step out, with no more effect than to make me cry out with the pain. “And hark ye there, cousin! We’re followed.” I heard the sound of voices beyond the Dyke. “We are undone!” says I, cursing our ill-fate to myself. “They will be upon us in a few moments.”