“Stephen! Indeed he is stone dead! Were he our brother we could not do otherwise,” reasoned Ambrose, forcibly dragging his brother to his feet. “Go on we must. Wouldst have us all slaughtered for his sake? Come! The rogues will be upon us anon. Spring saved this good man’s life. Undo not his work. See! Is yonder your horse, sir? This way, Stevie!” The instinct of catching the horse roused Stephen, and it was soon accomplished, for the steed was a plump, docile, city-bred palfrey, with dapple-grey flanks like well-stuffed satin pincushions, by no means resembling the shaggy Forest ponies of the boys’ experience, but quite astray in the heath, and ready to come at the master’s whistle, and call of “Soh! Soh!—now Poppet!” Stephen caught the bridle, and Ambrose helped the burgess into the saddle. “Now, good boys,” he said, “each of you lay a hand on my pommel. We can make good speed ere the rascals find out our scant numbers.” “You would make better speed without us, sir,” said Stephen, hankering to remain beside poor Spring. “D’ye think Giles Headley the man to leave two children, that have maybe saved my life as well as my purse, to bear the malice of the robbers?” demanded the burgess angrily. “That were like those fellows of mine who have shown their heels and left their master strapped to a tree! Thou! thou! what’s thy name, that hast the most wit, bring thy brother, unless thou wouldst have him laid by the side of his dog.” Stephen was forced to comply, and run by Poppet’s side, though his eyes were so full of tears that he could not see his way, even when the pace slackened, and in the twilight they found themselves among houses and gardens, and thus in safety, the lights of an inn shining not far off. A figure came out in the road to meet them, crying, “Master! master! is it you? and without scathe? Oh, the saints be praised!” “Ay, Tibble, ’tis I and no other, thanks to the saints and to these brave lads! What, man, I blame thee not, I know thou canst not strike; but where be the rest?” “In the inn, sir. I strove to call up the hue and cry to come to the rescue, but the cowardly hinds were afraid of the thieves, and not one would come forth.” “I wish they may not be in league with them,” said Master Headley. “See! I was delivered—ay, and in time to save my purse, by these twain and their good dog. Are ye from these parts, my fair lads?” “We be journeying from the New Forest to London,” said Ambrose. “The poor dog heard the tumult, and leapt to your aid, sir, and we made after him.” “’Twas the saints sent him!” was the fervent answer. “And” (with a lifting of the cap) “I hereby vow to St. Julian a hound of solid bronze a foot in length, with a collar of silver, to his shrine in St. Faith’s, in token of my deliverance in body and goods! To London are ye bound? Then will we journey on together!”