“Cuthbert, mount,” cried Sir Walter, and the two cutting short their good-byes, jumped upon their steeds, surprised out of their calmer senses, by this sudden and unlooked for announcement. “This way, my son,” cried the old knight, and led the way across a paddock behind the house; disappearing in a copse beyond, just as the pursuers reached the court-yard, and found the old men and servants trying to look as if nothing had happened. “My life upon it, they are but just gone,” cried Sir John Redfyrne, as he gazed around. The two fugitives rode through the copse by a narrow path, and then emerged on the road just at the brink of the pass described before; here the way descended to the level of the Becky by several zig-zags: and they were forced to ride very cautiously. Not so cautiously, however, but a trivial accident happened, involving most tragical consequences. Sir Walter’s horse trod on a mole hill, just thrown up, and his foot sank in the loose earth; causing him to stumble and throw his master to the ground; Cuthbert was down in a moment, and at his foster father’s side, and, to his joy, he saw his benefactor arise and sit up as if unhurt, but when he tried to get on his legs, he groaned and said-- “My son, I fear my poor leg is broken, the stirrup held and twisted it.” “Nay, nay, my father, let me help you.” Sir Walter almost swooned with pain as he made a desperate effort to arise; then said, “Cuthbert, ride on, it is _you_ they seek, remember all that depends on you, ride on to Glastonbury, and wait for news of me; if I come not, you know what to do, ride on: ah! here they come, gallop forward ere you be too late.” “Do you think I can leave you now, father?” said the poor youth. “Oh, try once more. Nay, it is useless, here they are.” “Put the best face you can on the matter; do not let them see we were flying from them.” “Help, help, Sir Walter Trevannion has fallen from his horse, and broken his leg.” “What,” cried Sir Thomas Stukely as he rode up; “how is this, Sir Walter, not much hurt I hope; we must help you home,--come, men, bear a hand.” “No more of this trifling,” cried Sir John Redfyrne, sternly; “while it goes on, that lad may escape, and he is worth his weight in gold; do your duty, constables, and you, Sir Thomas.” “By zounds, I want no man to teach me my duty, least of all a cockney knight: look here, Trevannion, tell me the truth and I will act no knave’s part to spite an old friend whose father was my crony, and so serve some one else’s grudge; art thou, or art thou not, the man they seek as Father Ambrose, Prior of Furness? say _no_, and we will help thee home, and leave thee in peace; now man, why dost thou not speak?” Sir Walter looked upon his friend, such a sad look, in which gratitude struggled with pain. “Stukely,” he said, “do thy duty, thou art ever a true man.”