Even our Hubert, brave as he had been, was changed.  He understood his father’s affliction better, nor was he ever quite so light hearted and frivolous again.  The joy of youth was dimmed.  Yet he often thought that the apparition of the slain Frenchman might have been but a dream sent from heaven, to encourage him in his undertaking on his father’s behalf.

Chapter 18:  The Retreat Of The Outlaws.

The day was fine, and in the sun the heat was oppressive, but a grateful coolness lay beneath the shades of the forest, as our two brethren, Martin and Ginepro, pursued their way under the spreading canopy of leaves in search of the outlaws, whom most men preferred to avoid.

Crossing the Dicker, a wild tract of heath land which we have already introduced to our readers, and leaving Chiddinglye to the left, they entered upon a pathless wilderness.  Mighty trees raised their branches to heaven, whose trunks resembled the columns in some vast cathedral.  There was little underwood, and walking was very pleasant and easy.

And as they went they indulged in much pleasant discourse.  Ginepro related many tales of “sweet Father Francis,” and in return Martin enlightened his companion with regard to the manners and customs of the natives into whose territories they were penetrating; men who knew no laws but those of the greenwood, and who were but on a par with the heathen in things spiritual, at least so said the neighbouring ecclesiastics.

“All the more need of our mission,” thought both.

They were now in a very dense wood, and the track they had been following became more and more obscure when, just as they crossed a little stream, a stern voice called, “Stand and deliver.”

They looked up.  There were men with bended bows and quivers full of arrows on either side.  They had fallen into an ambush.

Martin was quite unalarmed.

“Nay, bend not your bows.  We be but poor brethren of Saint Francis, who have come hither for your good.”

“For our goods, you mean.  We want no begging friars or like cattle.”

“But I have a special message for thee, Kynewulf, well named; and for thee, Forkbeard; and for thee, Nick.”

“Ah!  Whom have we got here?”

“An old friend under a new guise.  Lead me to your chieftain, Grimbeard, who, I hope, is well.  Or shall I show you the road?”

“Yes, if you know it.  Art thou a wizard?”

“Nay, only a poor friar.  Am I to lead or follow?”

“Lead, by all means.  Then we shall know that thou canst do so.”

Martin, nothing loth, walked forward boldly, Ginepro more timidly by his side.  They were such wild-looking outlaws.  At last they reached a spring, and Martin left the beaten path, ascended a slope, and stood at the entrance to a large natural amphitheatre, not unlike an old chalk pit, such as men still hew from the side of the same hills.