fugitives from the great battle.

The noise of their passage had scarce begun to die away towards Shoreby,
before fresh hoofs came echoing in their wake, and another deserter
clattered down the road; this time a single rider and, by his splendid
armour, a man of high degree. Close after him there followed several
baggage-waggons, fleeing at an ungainly canter, the drivers flailing at
the horses as if for life. These must have run early in the day; but
their cowardice was not to save them. For just before they came abreast
of where the lads stood wondering, a man in hacked armour, and seemingly
beside himself with fury, overtook the waggons, and with the truncheon of
a sword, began to cut the drivers down. Some leaped from their places
and plunged into the wood; the others he sabred as they sat, cursing them
the while for cowards in a voice that was scarce human.

All this time the noise in the distance had continued to increase; the
rumble of carts, the clatter of horses, the cries of men, a great,
confused rumour, came swelling on the wind; and it was plain that the
rout of a whole army was pouring, like an inundation, down the road.

Dick stood sombre. He had meant to follow the highway till the turn for
Holywood, and now he had to change his plan. But above all, he had
recognised the colours of Earl Risingham, and he knew that the battle had
gone finally against the rose of Lancaster. Had Sir Daniel joined, and
was he now a fugitive and ruined? or had he deserted to the side of York,
and was he forfeit to honour? It was an ugly choice.

"Come," he said, sternly; and, turning on his heel, he began to walk
forward through the grove, with Matcham limping in his rear.

For some time they continued to thread the forest in silence. It was now
growing late; the sun was setting in the plain beyond Kettley; the
tree-tops overhead glowed golden; but the shadows had begun to grow
darker and the chill of the night to fall.

"If there were anything to eat!" cried Dick, suddenly, pausing as he
spoke.

Matcham sat down and began to weep.

"Ye can weep for your own supper, but when it was to save men's lives,
your heart was hard enough," said Dick, contemptuously. "Y' 'ave seven
deaths upon your conscience, Master John; I'll ne'er forgive you that."

"Conscience!" cried Matcham, looking fiercely up. "Mine! And ye have
the man's red blood upon your dagger! And wherefore did ye slay him, the
poor soul? He drew h