'A prayer? Brother, I have done nothing but pray since this unfortunate rebellion began. A prayer? Oh, I cannot pray! If I were to pray now it would be as if my words were echoed back from a wall of solid rock. We were praying all yesterday; we made the Sabbath into a day of prayer without ceasing; and this morning, when you opened the door, we were praising and thanking God for the mercy of the great victory bestowed upon us. And at that time the poor brave men----' 'They were brave enough to the end,' said Barnaby. 'The poor brave men lying cold and dead upon the field (among them, maybe, Robin!), and the prisoners huddled together somewhere, and men hanging already upon the gibbets. We were praising God--and my father lying on the ground stricken to death, and thou a fugitive, and all of us ruined! Prayer? How could I pray from such a pit of woe?' 'Child'--my mother lifted her pale face--'in the darkest hour pray without ceasing. Even if there happen a darker hour than this, in everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known--with thanksgiving, my daughter.' Alas! I could not obey the apostolic order. 'Twas too much for me. So we fell into silence. When the sun had quite gone down Barnaby went forth cautiously. Presently he came back. 'There is no one on the road,' he said. 'We may now go on our way. The air of Taunton is dangerous to us. It breeds swift and fatal diseases. I have now resolved what to do. I will lift my father upon the cart again and put in the pony. Four or five miles sou'-west or thereabouts is Black Down, which is a No-Man's-Land. Thither will we go and hide in the combs, where no one ever comes, except the gipsies.' 'How shall we live Barnaby?' 'That,' he said, 'we shall find out when we come to look about us. There is provision for two days. The nights are warm. We shall find cover or make it with branches. There is water in the brooks and dry wood to burn. There we may, perhaps, be safe. When the country is quiet, we will make our way across the hills to Bradford Orcas, where no one will molest you, and I can go off to Bristol or Lyme, or wherever there are ships to be found. When sailors are shipwrecked, they do not begin by asking what they shall do on dry land: they ask only to feel the stones beneath their feet. We must think of nothing now but of a place of safety.' 'Barnaby, are the open hills a proper place for a wounded man?' 'Why, Child, for a choice between the hills and what else may happen if we stay here, give me the hills, even for a wounded man. But, indeed'--he whispered, so that my mother should not hear him--'he will die. Death is written on his face. I know not how long he will live. But he must die. Never did any man recover from such evil plight.'