The first soldier sullenly strolled over to the back of the cart, but, suddenly recovering himself, Nicholas Hobbes backed his horse, causing the man to be pinned between the wheel and the stonework of the arch. There was a sudden scattering of the arrows, an indistinct mass hurtling through the air, and the fletcher found himself, as he had foretold, lying prone in the dust. When he sat up the soldiers were calling wildly to the rest of the guard, while a fleeing figure, already growing small in the distance, showed that the fugitive Revyngton was well on his way to freedom. With the din of the soldiers' shouts still ringing in his ears, Revyngton ran steadily onwards with a long, steady swing, his elbows pressed against his sides, and breathing easily, for he was no mean runner. Away in front rose the gaunt outline of St. Catherine's Hill, with the square tower of the Hospital of St. Cross, which sanctuary he knew was denied him, slightly to the right. Between ran the swift-flowing river Itchen, and the fugitive realised that he would have to run the gauntlet of the watchers before the sanctuary ere he could reach the ford where the river swept the base of the hill. His way lay through the meadows where, but a few hours ago, he had wandered in blissful, though then unappreciated, freedom, and shudderingly, and with averted face, he raced past the scene of the fatal encounter. Fortunately his local knowledge prevented him from crossing the narrow plank bridge that led solely to a marshy meadow enclosed by two arms of the river, so, keeping close to the shadow of the pollard willows, he held steadily on his way, the babbling of the river as it flowed with sparkling eddies in the bright sunshine sounding like soothing music to the hunted man. Just as he reached the ford his movements were observed by a party of the officers of the law who had been keeping a toilsome vigil around the outer wall of St. Cross, and a crossbow bolt, shot at a high angle, boomed through the air and buried itself less than twenty yards from him. There was a general scene of confusion, some of the men running after him afoot, others rushing off to where their horses stood tethered in a clump of trees. It being the hot season, the river was but ankle-deep at the ford, and, refreshed by the coldness of the water, Revyngton hastened his pace up the long, dusty road towards the hamlet of Twyford. As he ran he could not resist the inclination to look back, and from the elevated position of the highway he could see the whole of the distance betwixt him and the cathedral city.