"Your majesty needn't be alarmed," he said. "The forms you behold are merely trunks of old trees, or projecting boughs. They have a weird look at this time, and I myself have been scared by 'em."
At length they emerged from the forest, and got upon a wide common—greatly to the king's relief, for he had begun to feel oppressed by the gloom. The fresh air, so different from the damp atmosphere he had just been inhaling, laden with the scent of decaying leaves and timber, produced an exhilarating effect upon him, and he strode along vigorously.
While crossing the common, they descried a patrol of horse apparently proceeding in the direction of White Ladies or Boscobel, but they easily avoided them, and quitting the common, they soon afterwards mounted a steep hill, on the other side of which was a brook that turned a water-mill. As they drew near the mill, the sound of voices brought them to a halt. The hour being now late, it was singular that any persons should be astir, and Trusty Dick, naturally alarmed by the circumstance, at first thought of turning back. But to do so would have taken him and his companion considerably out of their course, and he therefore hesitated.
"This is Evelith Mill," he observed in a low voice to Charles, "Roger Bushell, the miller, is a cross-grained fellow, and I think a Roundhead, so I shouldn't like to trust him."
"'Tis safer not," replied the king. "How far are we from Madeley?"
"About two miles," replied Dick. "But if we were obliged to turn back it will add another mile, at least, to the distance."
"Then let us go on," said the king.
So they waited quietly for a few minutes, when the light disappeared, and the voices became hushed.
"Roger Bushell has gone to bed at last," observed Charles. "We may proceed on our way."