But help was near at hand. Before the maddened and half stupefied Englishmen were able to move the night again resounded. Blood had scented the foe and could no longer be restrained. The priest wheeled round when he heard those howls, and escaped into the shadows with Penfold and Woodfield at his heels. There was indeed one man, and he the most vengeful of his enemies, who might have outstripped the priest, but it so happened that the long-striding Puritan had lost his reason. Obeying the first impulse, he pursued the traitress, mad to avenge the good yeoman who was stretched to his long sleep at the entrance to New Windsor. Nor did he realise his mistake until the shadow, after mocking him for a long mile, flitted into the unknown depths of the bush, and so disappeared. "Fear not, masters," called young Richard, as boy and dog passed, running as freshly as at the start. "Do but show my father which way I have gone. Blood shall hunt the Frenchman down, and I shall slay him. I shall slay him, friends." They swept on, flinging the dew across the bars of moonshine. That triumphant voice came back to the two men as they slackened speed for lack of breath: "I shall slay the Frenchman. I shall slay him, friends." Penfold sank upon a bed of moss and panted into his hands. Woodfield stood near, his breath coming in white steam, his breast rising and falling. "It is God's way, neighbour," he said gently. The old leader's voice came in a sobbing whisper: "Through the device of the devil, smitten down foully.... A man of few words, a good soul, with a smile for all. I knew him as a boy at home, a gentle boy, who would never join in stoning birds in the hedgerow or in killing butterflies, because, quoth he, God made them to give us song and happiness. And yet none quicker than he at ball or quintain, none braver at quarterstaff. Twice won he the silver arrow in Holborn Fields, and at home would lead his mother to church a' Sundays, and a' week-day drive the horses out to field. A sober lad as ever sang with the lark beside our Thames.... An arrow in the back, an arrow shot by an Indian witch. It passes all. Call you that God's way? God wills a man to die in fair fight, with his death in front. And this! Oh, George! To fall like a beast hunted for the pot." "Yet 'twas a soldier's end." "Tell them not at home," cried Penfold. "Let them not know, if ever we see Thames-side again, how George Flower fell. Ay, like a flower he came up, and as a grass has he been mown down. Many are the wiles of Satan. The arrow that flieth by night, the coward arrow of treachery. 'Tis a foul wind that blows out a good man's life. He was a good man. His old mother, if yet she live, may look upon his past and smile. Such as George has made our England live. The strong oaks of the land. From treachery and sudden death, good Lord deliver us!" "Amen, captain!"