Not that De Breauté was by any means inclined to give up the chase. He could see the hapless horsewoman he was pursuing far ahead and entering the little village of Bromham, and he followed her along firmer ground at some distance from the river. The long, many-arched bridge which still stretches over the flat meadows at Bromham was furnished at the western end in those days with a small wayside chapel, the ruins of which can still be traced in the mill-house. Aliva rode slowly into the village, and wearily approached the foot of the bridge. As she cast an anxious glance over her shoulder, she saw that her pursuers had now reached hard ground, and were gaining on her rapidly. Her little palfrey was dead beat. The struggle in the dike had completely exhausted him, and he no longer answered to his mistress’s voice or to the touch of her riding-wand. As he reached the first cottage at Bromham, he stumbled and rolled heavily from side to side. Aliva was off his back in a moment. A rustic stood by, gazing in astonishment at the young lady’s condition--drenched and hoodless, her fair hair streaming over her shoulders. But Aliva’s first thought was for her horse. "Prithee, friend," she cried to the peasant, "take my palfrey and tend him. You shall be well rewarded. I am the daughter of the lord of Bletsoe, and if I come not to claim him myself, take him to Bletsoe Castle when he has recovered." She hurried on. How to escape now she knew not. But suddenly, as she approached the bridge, she perceived a haven of refuge. The chapel door stood open, and the poor hunted girl stepped into the welcome sanctuary. *CHAPTER XI.* _*BREATHING-TIME.*_ As Aliva entered the little chapel on the bridge, she saw, in the uncertain twilight, two figures kneeling before the altar. One was that of a stalwart young man in the garb of a lay-brother of the Benedictine order, and the other that of an elderly woman in the dress of a peasant. Both rose from their knees, disturbed by the hurried entrance of Aliva, and were surprised to see before them a lady of the upper classes so damp and bedraggled and hoodless. The heart of the woman was touched. "Lack-a-day, lady!" she exclaimed; "hast thou been in Ouse water?" she added, with a slight shudder. "I have come here for rest," replied Aliva, not wishing to reveal her story to peasant strangers. "I have indeed, as you say, suffered somewhat by mishap in a stream, and I have lost my horse." As she spoke, the sound of her voice, and a closer scrutiny of her features, increased the astonishment of the two listeners. "Gramercy on us!" cried the woman; "if this is not our lady from Bletsoe!" Aliva looked more narrowly at her, and then at the lay-brother. "Our Lady be praised!" she murmured faintly; "I find friends. Are you not the wife of Goodman Hodges; and is this not your son, the lay-brother from St. Alban’s?"