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.

But if the hand of man had ever wrought this one, it had been in
ages long past, of which no record remained. The soft hand of
nature had filled up the gaps and seams with creeping plants and
bushes, and all deformities were hidden by her magic touch. Around
the sides of the amphit