It was not, however, until he had travelled full half a mile and taken several turns that he at last began to descry something like daylight. It was, indeed, only a glimmer. But he proceeded, pushed through a cleft of a rock, and going head-foremost through some brushwood, found himself to his great joy in a thicket close by the Kennet. Pedro, indeed, leapt for joy as he reflected on the discovery he had made, but did not in his excitement forget to leave such marks as to insure his being able to find the place on his return, for to return he intended. Cunningly he set marks on the trees around, measured the distance to the margin of the river, impressed on his memory the various objects around, and then, turning his face southward, made for the neighbourhood of London as fast as he could, to obviate the chance of being recaptured in case of pursuit. But he was in no danger in that respect. At Chas-Chateil his disappearance was heard of with superstitious awe, and the inmates told each other that the goblin who had been figuring as a lady’s page, and whose spells and devices had driven the governor half-crazy and caused him to walk while asleep, had been suddenly carried off by his master who sent him. Only one person dissented--it was Clem the Bold Rider, who gave his reasons for believing the page to have been a spy. But Clem’s character for veracity did not rank high, and he did not improve it by the story which he told on this occasion. As for Sir Anthony Waledger, he woke up before sunset, much refreshed with his sleep. It was the first sound sleep the knight had enjoyed for months. Of course he could give no account as to how and where the mysterious page had gone, only he very much missed the music and the song. Meanwhile, Hugh de Moreville was leaving Paris, resolved on placing Chas-Chateil in safer custody. The Norman baron was destined to reach the castle five hours too late for his purpose. CHAPTER XXXII THE SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGE It was about ten o’clock on the night of the 17th of May, 1216, that a man and a boy--the one mounted on a strong Flemish charger, the other on one of those common riding horses then known as a “haquenée”--made their way up the banks of the Kennet, and halted by the spot from which so recently Pedro the page had emerged from subterranean darkness into the light of day. There need be no mystery, so far as the reader is concerned, as to who the riders were. One was William de Collingham, the other was Wolf, the son of Styr, and it was clear from the caution with which they moved, that they were bent on some enterprise to the success of which secrecy was essential. “Sir knight,” said the boy, in a low tone, “this is the spot.” “Art thou certain?” asked the knight, looking round. “As certain as that I serve the Icinglas, and that I played the part of a goblin page in Chas-Chateil.”