“Aye, Lady,” broke in Bolle, “and there he lies also where he fell; they buried him with never a Christian prayer,” and he pointed to a little careless mound between two willows. “Jesus, have mercy on his soul!” said Cicely, crossing herself. “Now, if I live, I swear that I will move his bones to the chancel of Blossholme church and build a fair monument to his memory.” This, as all visitors to the place know, she did, for that monument remains to this day, representing the old knight lying in the snow, with the arrow in his throat, between the two murderers whom he slew, while round the corner of the tomb Jeffrey Stokes gallops away. While Cicely stared back at this desolate grave, muttering a prayer for the departed, Thomas Bolle heard something which caused him to prick his ears. “What is it?” asked Jacob Smith, who saw the change in his face. “Horses galloping--many horses, master,” he answered; “yes, and riders on them. Listen.” They did so, and now they also heard the thud of horse’s hoofs and the shouts of men. “Quick, quick,” said Bolle, “follow me. I know where we may hide,” and he led them off to a dense thicket of thorn and beech scrub which grew about two hundred yards away under a group of oaks at a place where four tracks crossed. Owing to the beech leaves, which, when the trees are young, as every gardener knows, cling to the twigs through autumn and winter, this place was very close, and hid them completely. Scarcely had they taken up their stand there, when, in the red light of the sunset, they saw a strange sight. Along, not that road they had followed, but another, which led round the farther side of King’s Grave Mount, now seen and now hidden by the forest trees, a tall man in armour mounted on a grey horse, accompanied by another man in a leathern jerkin mounted on a black horse, galloped towards them, whilst, at a distance of not more than a hundred yards behind them, appeared a motley mob of pursuers. “Escaped prisoners being run down,” muttered Bolle, but Cicely took no heed. There was something about the appearance of the rider of the grey horse that seemed to draw her heart out of her. She leaned forward on her beast’s neck, staring with all her eyes. Now the two men were almost opposite the thicket, and the man in mail turned his face to his companion and called cheerily-- “We gain! We’ll slip them yet, Jeffrey.” Cicely saw the face. “Christopher!” she cried; “_Christopher!_”