“My own and very self. And poor Gilbert—you have heard?” He looked grim. “God hearten you, child! But what has happened?” The boy reappeared, and proceeded to stare at them, while he picked his teeth with a straw. Nor was John Falconer aware of the youngster’s presence until he saw Mellis’s eyes prompting him to turn his head. The man of Badger Hill gave a kind of growl, and the child disappeared with a flutter of brown legs. “I had to find you, John, but I am loth to be seen here by any stray fool.” “The men are in the fields.” “But that boy?” “He has no tongue when it pleases me.” She glanced at the pine woods. “If your dinner can wait I will talk to you up there.” He nodded. “Wise wench!” Mellis fastened her horse to a tree, and she and John Falconer walked to and fro along one of the black aisles. She had much to tell him, and he seemed to grow grimmer the longer he listened. His comments were short, gruff growls and an occasional terse judgment. “Vance dead! May he burn like pitch! The priest turned outlaw! What next? You have made him your man? Nay—I mislike that. A black Benedictine! Lord, but we are in for a storm!” John Falconer frightened most people, but he did not frighten Mellis. She had known him since she was a toddler of three, to be picked up and carried on his shoulder. “Whether you like it or not, John, these things cannot be helped. Vance has made us run when we would have walked. As to Martin Valliant, I would stake my right hand on his keeping faith with us. And now—will you rally to us? We can hold Woodmere till the whole Forest flaunts the Red Rose.” “I would we had word from France.” “It cannot be helped. If our people are loth to move—well, I will disappear, go and live in one of those old quarry holes by the Rondel.” He answered her doggedly. “No. I am with you, if I lose my old head for it. I am not so young as I was, and I would get my blow in at Roger Bland before I am stiff in the back. I will ride out to-night and warn our friends, and by to-morrow we shall be able to throw a garrison into Woodmere.” “Stubborn, trusty oak!” Falconer smiled grimly. “There are many men who lust to feel their poniards in Roger Bland’s throat. I pray that mine may have that honor.” Mellis did not tarry there much longer. Her work was done for the day; she could leave the Forest folk to John Falconer. She chose a different track for her homeward ride—a way that plunged through the pine woods and turned south again by Witch’s Cross. And she was saved by her caution, for half an hour after she had left Badger Hill Peter Rich and his men came riding along the track she had used in the morning. They found John Falconer at his dinner, and well warned as to their business. He was bluff and easy with Peter Rich, had ale drawn for the men and water for their horses. Rich did not beat about his business. “This is a hanging job for any fool who meddles. We are after old Dale’s daughter.”