“To tell the truth, we are flying from Sutton,” I said.  “We belonged to the train of Ethelbert of East Anglia.”

“Why fly, then?”

“Have you heard nothing of what has been done?” I asked.

“No.  We heard that there was a king with Offa; that is all.”

Then I told him what our trouble was, and the men round me—­for I spoke in Welsh, learned when I was a child from our thralls—­understood me; and more than once I heard them speak low words of pity for the young king.  They had no unfriendliness for East Anglia.

“Then that is all that the gathering was for?” asked the leader.

And then he suddenly seemed suspicious, and said sharply, with his hand on the neck of my horse: 

“But to come hither from Sutton you had to cross the river.  Your horse is dry.  He has not had time to shake the water from him yet.”

“That is a longer story,” I said.  “But he was on this side; we had to wade to reach him.”

The chief set his hand on my leg and gripped it.  Then he laughed.  “Reach down your arm,” he said.

I did so, and he laughed again.

“Very wet,” he said.  “But the lady?”

“Very wet also,” answered Hilda.  “I pray you, sir, let us pass on, if only for that reason.  I would fain get to the archbishop at Fernlea shortly.”

“Why to him, lady?”

“Because even Quendritha will fear to take me thence.”

“Eh, but you are flying from her!  Then speed you well, lady and good sirs.  We have little love for Offa, but he is a warrior and a man; whereas—­Well, I will bid you promise to say no word of this meeting, and you shall go.”

That promise we gave freely, as may be supposed.  If the Welsh chose to swarm over the border and burn Sutton Palace, it might be but just recompense for what those walls had seen; but I thought that, with their fear of the gathering at an end, the man who had lit yonder hillside fires would disband his levies for the time.  So we parted very good friends, in a way, and this chief bade one of his men guide us for the mile or so which he could pass in safety.  We were closer then to Fernlea than I thought, and in half an hour we were at the gates.

Where our Welshman left us I cannot say.  Somewhere he slipped from my side into the darkness, and when next I spoke to him there was no answer.

Now we had to wait outside the town gates—­for the place was, as might be supposed, strongly stockaded against the Welsh—­until one went to the town reeve and fetched him, seeing that we had not the password for the night.  But at last they let us in, and took us to the house of the reeve himself, for the archbishop was there.  And there is no need to say that when he heard our story he welcomed us most kindly, promising Hilda his protection.  There, too, the good wife of the reeve cared for the maiden as if she were her own daughter, and I saw her no more that night.