She nodded approvingly.
“That may help us. Can you use a bow?”
“Passably. As a boy I used to carry a prodd and shoot at the crows.”
“The long bow for a forester; the arbalist is only for townsmen.”
“I could hit a sheaf of corn at fifty paces when I was younger.”
“You will have to grow young again. And traps—can you set a snare as a bird-trap?”
“No.”
“I am thinking of our larder,” she explained. “Outlaws are not fed by ravens.”
The sun had swung well into the west when they were ready to start upon their journey. Mellis went to the great cross, and from its knoll she scanned the moor, but could see no live thing moving anywhere. Martin stood by the horse, leaning on his hollywood staff and staring at the ground, trying to convince himself that he was not dreaming. He saw Mellis come back and turn her head so as not to see those dead things lying by the rest-house. Yes, the business was real enough. He had but to look at Mellis, and the knowledge leaped in him that the Martin Valliant of yesterday was dead.
“I can see no one moving. The sooner we are lost to view in the woods, the better it will be for us.”