The two men followed the winding path that struck the main “ride” running through the heart of the wood, and they walked fast because of the twilight, and because it was believed that the wood was haunted. For the wilds were the haunts of the evil things of the night, and when a saint lived a holy life in such a place she was sure of being tempted and vexed by devils. The tale of St. Guthlac of Crowland was a tale that was told of many a saint. When the lamp of sanctity was lit in some such wilderness the spirits of evil would fly at it in fury, and seek to beat it out with the rush of their black wings. Oswald and Peter were no more superstitious than their neighbours, but they were as timid as children in the thick of that dark wood. And to frighten their credulity a strange sound seemed on the gallop with the gusts of the wind, a sound that was like the trampling of a horse under the sad gloom of the trees. The sound came so uncomfortably near to them, that Oswald and Peter bolted into the underwood like a couple of brown rabbits. And looking back half furtively, as they scrambled through brambles and under hazels, they had a glimpse of a great black shape rushing through the darkness on the wings of the wind. The two men did not wait to see more of it, but got out of the wood as fast as their legs could carry them. “It was a ghost or a devil,” they said to one another. “God defend us, but surely it is a terrible thing to be a saint.” They pushed on, heartily glad to be free of the far-reaching hands of the spectral trees. “It was good for us that we had the saint’s blessing.” “God and St. Martin hearten her. The devil vexes those who live for good works.” “Father Grimbald must know of it. He is man enough to come and take a devil by the beard.” So Oswald and Peter went back to their womenfolk and their cattle, glad to be near warm bodies, snug under their woodland huts. The night passed, and the dawn came, a slow, stealthy dawn muffled in silver mist. Rabbits scampered in the glades, brushing the dew from the wet grass. Birds hunted for worms, and fluttered away to feed their young. And the devil whom Oswald and Peter had seen, sent the rabbits bolting for their burrows as he rode away through the beech wood towards the sea. Before noon Etoile the lute girl had a wreath of hair curled like a snake about the little wooden cross in her lap. Gaillard had brought them to her, hiding a guilty memory in the eyes behind a laughing swagger. The Gascon’s voluble tongue was driven to deal very fancifully with the adventure, since Etoile was very curious, and intent on hearing everything. The Red Saint was very ready to be worshipped, such was Gaillard’s explanation. She was a little vainer than the majority of women, and Gaillard shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “A red apple is always a red apple,” he said. “Mother Eve taught us that.” The mischievous devil in Etoile was not yet satisfied.