A rough tor had risen full in front, but the road swerved to the left and took us down among the spurs of it. Now was my last lookout. I tried to sway less heavily in the saddle, and with my eyes searched the plain at our feet. Alas! Beneath us the waste land was spread, mile upon mile: and I groaned aloud. For just below I noted a clump of roofless cabins, and beyond, upon the moors, the dotted walls of sheep-cotes, ruined also: but in all the sad-color’d leagues no living man, nor the sign of one. It was done with us. I reined up the mare—and then, in the same motion, wheeled her sharp to the right. High above, on the hillside, a voice was calling. I look’d up. Below the steeper ridge of the tor a patch of land had been cleared for tillage: and here a yoke of oxen was moving leisurely before a plough (’twas their tinkling bells I had heard, just now); while behind followed the wildest shape—by the voice, a woman. She was not calling to me, but to her team: and as I put Molly at the slope, her chant rose and fell in the mournfullest singsong. “So-hoa! Oop Comely Vean! oop, then—o-oop!” I rose in my stirrups and shouted. At this and the sound of hoofs, she stay’d the plough and, hand on hip, looked down the slope. The oxen, softly rattling the chains on their yoke, turn’d their necks and gazed. With sunk head Molly heaved herself up the last few yards and came to a halt with a stagger. I slipp’d out of the saddle and stood, with a hand on it, swaying. “What’s thy need, young man—that comest down to Temple wi’ sword a-danglin’?” The girl was a half-naked savage, dress’d only in a strip of sacking that barely reach’d her knees, and a scant bodice of the same, lac’d in front with pack thread, that left her bosom and brown arms free. Yet she appear’d no whit abash’d, but lean’d on the plough-tail and regarded me, easy and frank, as a man would. “Sell me a horse,” I blurted out: “Twenty guineas will I give for one within five minutes, and more if he be good! I ride on the King’s errand.” “Then get thee back to thy master, an’ say, no horse shall he have o’ me—nor any man that uses horseflesh so.” She pointed to Molly’s knees, that were bow’d and shaking, and the bloody froth dripping from her mouth. “Girl, for God’s sake sell me a horse! They are after me, and I am hurt.” I pointed up the road. “Better than I are concerned in this.” “God nor King know I, young man. But what’s on thy saddle cloth, there?” ’Twas the smear where my blood had soak’d: and looking and seeing the purple mess cak’d with mud and foam on the sorrel’s flank, I felt suddenly very sick. The girl made a step to me. “Sell thee a horse? Hire thee a bedman, more like. Nay, then, lad—” But I saw her no longer: only called “oh-oh!” twice, like a little child, and slipping my hold of the saddle, dropp’d forward on her breast. * * * * * * *