to south, vast and
untenanted, for on the uplands the soil was poor and water scarce.
Over Crooksbury Common he passed, and then across the great Heath of
Puttenham, following a sandy path which wound amid the bracken and
the heather, for he meant to strike the Pilgrims' Way where it turned
eastward from Farnham and from Seale. As he rode he continually felt his
saddle-bag with his hand, for in it, securely strapped, he had placed
the precious treasures of the Lady Ermyntrude. As he saw the grand tawny
neck tossing before him, and felt the easy heave of the great horse and
heard the muffled drumming of his hoofs, he could have sung and shouted
with the joy of living.

Behind him, upon the little brown pony which had been Nigel's former
mount, rode Samkin Aylward the bowman, who had taken upon himself the
duties of personal attendant and body-guard. His great shoulders and
breadth of frame seemed dangerously top-heavy upon the tiny steed,
but he ambled along, whistling a merry lilt and as lighthearted as his
master. There was no countryman who had not a nod and no woman who had
not a smile for the jovial bowman, who rode for the most part with his
face over his shoulder, staring at the last petticoat which had passed
him. Once only he met with a harsher greeting. It was from a tall,
white-headed, red-faced man whom they met upon the moor.

"Good-morrow, dear father!" cried Aylward. "How is it with you at
Crooksbury? And how are the new black cow and the ewes from Alton and
Mary the dairymaid and all your gear?"

"It ill becomes you to ask, you ne'er-do-weel," said the old man. "You
have angered the monks of Waverley, whose tenant I am, and they would
drive me out of my farm. Yet there are three more years to run, and
do what they may I will bide till then. But little did I think that I
should lose my homestead through you, Samkin, and big as you are I would
knock the dust out of that green jerkin with a good hazel switch if I
had you at Crooksbury."

"Then you shall do it to-morrow morning, good father, for I will come
and see you then. But indeed I did not do more at Waverley than you
would have done yourself. Look me in the eye, old hothead, and tell
me if you would have stood by while the last Loring--look at him as he
rides with his head in the air and his soul in the clouds--was shot down
before your very eyes at the bidding of that fat monk! If you would,
then I disown you as my father."

"Nay, Samkin, if it