“I shall gallop straight to Pontefract;”—­addressing De Lacy—­“I may aid in the search.  Have you any message for the King?”

“Only that you left us at Kirkstall.”

Darby gave him a quick, searching look.  “It is a very meagre report.”

De Lacy smiled.  “There has naught happened since we crossed the Aire; and what was discovered between the Castle and the river has already been communicated to the King.”

The Abbot watched Darby pass the gate.  “His lordship would have liked much to know what you found at the Hermit’s Cell and in the forest,” he remarked.

“Doubtless, though it was little enough,” said Aymer.  “However, it is but a few leagues to Pontefract and there he will learn all the news of the Court.”

“True, my son; yet, to an ardent lover and one not without hope of acceptance if rumor speak correctly, it would have been a satisfaction to know if you have anything that gives clue to the Countess or her captors.”

De Lacy shrugged his shoulders.  “Small comfort would I give him, then.”

“Peste! my son, I am very stupid.  I quite forgot that there are others than Darby who can see the attractions of the Lady of Clare.  And of a surety will she be grateful to him who rescues her.”

De Lacy made a gesture of dissent.

“It is scarce honorable, this motive you ascribe to me, my lord Abbot,” he said curtly.

“Honor and expediency go not always hand in hand,” the priest answered with a half suppressed sneer; then without giving time for retort, he changed his tones to grave courtesy.  “But I am remiss, my lord, I have not yet done you the civility of inquiring how we of Kirkstall can serve you.”

“Not at all, I fear; at least upon the matter that brought us here; it is evident you can give us no information as to the Countess.”

“Alas! no, my son.  Would to Heaven I could! . . .  Have you then lost all trace of her?”

“Aye, a league south of the Aire.”

“I will summon the brother who was on duty last night at the outer lodge; maybe he noted something that will aid you.”

But Father Ambrose had not seen a single way-farer; though as he had dozed several times during the night he thought a few persons might have passed quietly, and not aroused him.

“You doze!” exclaimed the Abbot in sarcastic displeasure and eyeing the good monk’s ample girth and heavy, jowly face.  “Your doze would need a pole-axe to awaken.  An army could have marched by with trumpets sounding and you never lift an eye.  Other duty shall be given you and a more slender brother assigned to the night watch.  You may go. . .  By my faith, sirs, I wonder if you soldiers have as much trouble with your subordinates as we churchmen have with ours.”

“We, at least, can deal out heavier discipline when occasion demand it,” De Wilton answered.

“Aye! you men of war tread not after the Merciful One,” the Abbot said.