Charles Bertrand chuckled with glee at the turn things had taken. It took but a moment to loosen the beasts, cut the pack from the one, and lead them both down into the wood. He then gave a whistle, and in a shorter time than it takes to relate it, Sir John was mounted on his own horse, Cobham on the captain’s discarded steed, with Bertrand behind him, and all were spurring forward toward the blue mountains, whose snow-capped peaks invited them to a safe and happy asylum. The chances were much against Ivan’s ever riding to market on the old gray war-horse, decked in the scarlet cloak purchased by the price of the three Lollard heads! For a mile or so both horses went at full speed, Sir John’s steed urged on by his master’s voice, and the trooper’s abused charger showing itself not much the worse for wear, by carrying double almost as fast as the other bore single weight. They had need of all their exertions, for they had not been off more than fifteen minutes before the whole band was in pursuit of them. They gained a little time, however, by their pursuers taking a wrong road, and it was not long before the November twilight closed suddenly upon them, aiding still more their concealment in the gloom of the forest. It was nearly midnight before they dismounted, and then, though wearied with their journey, and chilled by the sleet which had fallen during the last few hours, the place at which they stopped did not seem at all likely to afford them any one of the traveller’s three requirements--bed, food and fire. All seemed to be well acquainted with the spot. It was an old ruin of what had probably been a fine house in the days of Henry the First, but which had been destroyed, like many another, and its owner’s name blotted from existence during the wars of Stephen. Bertrand dismounted, and led the horses carefully among the stones, into what had been the courtyard of the castle. There he sheltered them under some broken arches, while their riders entered a low room, still left almost entire, but so situated that a careless person passing by, would fail to distinguish it from the masses of rubbish by which it was surrounded. The air within was damp and chilly; but De Forest pulled aside a loose stone in the wall, and from the recess behind it drew out some fagots of dry wood, a pitcher of common wine, a loaf of bread, and some hard Welsh cheese. A cheerful fire was soon blazing on the stone floor, after De Forest had hung his cloak over the opening by which they entered, for the double purpose of keeping the cold air from blowing on the backs of those within, and the firelight from revealing itself to those who might be without. Then, after warming their benumbed limbs, they were quite ready to do justice to the simple fare.