Martin laid the rest of the tools on the ground, and lashed them together by the handles. He tried the weight of the bundle. “Your horse will not bless us. I could shoulder these things.” “Seven miles?” “It is not the weight, but an awkward bale to tie on a horse’s back.” “Here’s a sack and some cord; wrap it around the handles; we can sling the food one side and the tools the other. The horse must make the best of it.” Her word was law for the moment, both to Martin Valliant and the beast. She stood by while he loaded the things on to the horse’s back, watching him critically and the way he used his big brown hands. “Can you ride a horse?” she asked him. He smiled around at her gravely. “I have broken in colts at Paradise.” “Was that monk’s work?” “I was young, and even a monk is none the worse for learning to handle an untamed thing and to keep his temper.” She nodded approvingly. “That may help us. Can you use a bow?” “Passably. As a boy I used to carry a prodd and shoot at the crows.” “The long bow for a forester; the arbalist is only for townsmen.” “I could hit a sheaf of corn at fifty paces when I was younger.” “You will have to grow young again. And traps—can you set a snare as a bird-trap?” “No.” “I am thinking of our larder,” she explained. “Outlaws are not fed by ravens.” The sun had swung well into the west when they were ready to start upon their journey. Mellis went to the great cross, and from its knoll she scanned the moor, but could see no live thing moving anywhere. Martin stood by the horse, leaning on his hollywood staff and staring at the ground, trying to convince himself that he was not dreaming. He saw Mellis come back and turn her head so as not to see those dead things lying by the rest-house. Yes, the business was real enough. He had but to look at Mellis, and the knowledge leaped in him that the Martin Valliant of yesterday was dead. “I can see no one moving. The sooner we are lost to view in the woods, the better it will be for us.” His tragic face touched her, but she let him alone, and taking the horse’s bridle, started over the moor. Martin followed her like a dog. He moved mechanically, watching her with a kind of sorrowful bewilderment, marching toward the new world with a heart that was very heavy. A man’s whole life cannot be overturned and broken in a day without the shock of it leaving him dazed and full of a dull distrust. To have become a murderer, to find himself tramping at the heels of a young woman whose eyes bewitched him, to know that there was a likelihood of both of them being hanged—these amazing realities hung heavy about Martin Valliant’s neck.