Now all too soon the dusk came, and we must set ourselves back from these wondrous things that had been to the ways of hard warriors again, with a precious charge in our keeping.  With Hilda we supped, and then it was dark.  Out in the stables the horses stood ready, my brown second steed being made ready for the lady, and Erling’s second carrying the packs, as on our first journey from Norfolk.  And then we heard the last words of farewell from the archbishop, and knelt for his blessing, even as the watch mustered outside in the street, and the last wayfarer hurried into or from the gates, and I heard the horns which told their closing.  It was dark overhead, and the moon had not yet climbed far into the sky; which was as well for our passing the ford unseen, if Gymbert had it watched.

Then the reeve came in, armed and ready, and we must go.  There was a little sobbing from the good wife, as was no doubt fitting, but by no means cheering; and so we passed from the warmly-lit little hall into the street, and mounted, clattering away toward the westward gate of the town, with the reeve ahead and two of his men after us.

The gates swung open for us, and two wayfarers took advantage thereof to get inside, which was to their good fortune.  Then we had a quarter of a mile of road to pass before we came to the ford below the field where our camp had been when we came.  After us the gates were shut again, and we rode on.

Then befell us a wonderful bit of good luck.  There came the quick tramp of a horse coming toward us, and out of the gloom rode a man in haste.  He pulled up short on seeing us, and I heard another horse stop and go away directly afterward.  It was too dark to see much against the black trees and land among which we rode, and the plainest thing about this comer was the little shower of sparks which flew now and then from the paving of the old way and from his horse’s hoofs.

“Ho,” said the reeve, with his hand on his sword hilt, “who comes?”

“Is that you, reeve?  Well glad am I. Are you out with a posse against those knaves at the ford?”

“Eh,” said the reeve, while we all halted, “is the ford beset with the Welsh?”

The man laughed somewhat.

“Not Welsh, but thieves of nearer kin.  I ride homeward along the river bank, and they stop me.  It seemed to put them out that my horse is not skew-bald, and that I am alone.  However, they would rob me.”

The reeve whistled under his breath.

“How have you got away?” he asked.

“Rode over one of them who held my horse.  There was one after me, or more.”

Now the reeve turned to me.

“What is to be done?” he said blankly.  “This is what we had to fear most of all.  This is surely Gymbert with his men.”

“How many may there be?” said I.

“Ten or a dozen, and mostly mounted,” the stranger told me.