The travellers reached Alton in the cool of the evening, and were kindly received by a monk, who had charge of a grange just outside the little town, near one of the springs of the River Wey.
The next day’s journey was a pleasanter one, for there was more of wood and heather, and they had to skirt round the marshy borders of various bogs. Spring was happier, being able to stop and lap whenever he would, and the whole scene was less unfriendly to them. But they scarcely made speed enough, for they were still among tall whins and stiff scrub of heather when the sun began to get low, gorgeously lighting the tall plumes of golden broom, and they had their doubts whether they might not be off the track; but in such weather, there was nothing alarming in spending a night out of doors, if only they had something for supper. Stephen took a bolt from the purse at his girdle, and bent his crossbow, so as to be ready in case a rabbit sprang out, or a duck flew up from the marshes.
A small thicket of trees was in sight, and they were making for it, when sounds of angry voices were heard, and Spring, bristling up the mane on his neck, and giving a few premonitory fierce growls like thunder, bounded forward as though he had been seven years younger. Stephen darted after him, Ambrose rushed after Stephen, and breaking through the trees, they beheld the dog at the throat of one of three men. As they came on the scene, the dog was torn down and hurled aside, giving a howl of agony, which infuriated his master. Letting fly his crossbow bolt full at the fellow’s face, he dashed on, reckless of odds, waving his knotted stick, and shouting with rage. Ambrose, though more aware of the madness of such an assault, still hurried to his support, and was amazed as well as relieved to find the charge effectual. Without waiting to return a blow, the miscreants took to their heels, and Stephen, seeing nothing but his dog, dropped on his knees beside the quivering creature, from whose neck blood was fast pouring. One glance of the faithful wistful eyes, one feeble movement of the expressive tail, and Spring had made his last farewell! That was all Stephen was conscious of; but Ambrose could hear the cry, “Good sirs, good lads, set me free!” and was aware of a portly form bound to a tree. As he cut the rope with his knife, the rescued traveller hurried out thanks and demands—“Where are the rest of you?” and on the reply that there were no more, proceeded, “Then we must on, on at once, or the villains will return! They must have thought you had a band of hunters behind you. Two furlongs hence, and we shall be safe in the hostel at Dogmersfield. Come on, my boy,” to Stephen, “the brave hound is quite dead, more’s the pity. Thou canst do no more for him, and we shall soon be in his case if we dally here.”
“I cannot, cannot leave him thus,” sobbed Stephen, who had the loving old head on his knees. “Ambrose! stay, we must bring him. There, his tail wagged! If the blood were staunched—”
“Stephen! Indeed he is stone dead! Were he our brother we could not do otherwise,” reasoned Ambrose, forcibly dragging his brother to his feet. “Go on we must. Wouldst have us all slaughtered for his sake? Come! The rogues will be upon us anon. Spring saved this good man’s life. Undo not his work. See! Is yonder your horse, sir? This way, Stevie!”
The instinct of catching the horse roused Stephen, and it was soon accomplished, for the steed was a plump, docile, city-bred palfrey, with dapple-grey flanks like well-stuffed satin pincushions, by no means resembling the shaggy Forest ponies of the boys’ experience, but quite astray in the heath, and ready to come at the master’s whistle, and call of “Soh! Soh!—now Poppet!” Stephen caught the bridle, and Ambrose helped the burgess into the saddle. “Now, good boys,” he said, “each of you lay a hand on my pommel. We can make good speed ere the rascals find out our scant numbers.”
“You would make better speed without us, sir,” said Stephen, hankering to remain beside poor Spring.
“D’ye think Giles Headley the man to leave two children, that have maybe saved my life as well as my purse, to bear the malice of the robbers?” demanded the burgess angrily. “That were like those fellows of mine who have shown their heels and left their master strapped to a tree! Thou! thou! what’s thy name, that hast the most wit, bring thy brother, unless thou wouldst have him laid by the side of his dog.”
Stephen was forced to comply, and run by Poppet’s side, though his eyes were so full of tears that he could not see his way, even when the pace slackened, and in the twilight they found themselves among houses and gardens, and thus in safety, the lights of an inn shining not far off.
A figure came out in the road to meet them, crying, “Master! master! is it you? and without scathe? Oh, the saints be praised!”
“Ay, Tibble, ’tis I and no other, thanks to the saints and to these brave lads! What, man, I blame thee not, I know thou canst not strike; but where be the rest?”
“In the inn, sir. I strove to call up the hue and cry to come to the rescue, but the cowardly hinds were afraid of the thieves, and not one would come forth.”
“I wish they may not be in league with them,” said Master Headley. “See! I was delivered—ay, and in time to save my purse, by these twain and their good dog. Are ye from these parts, my fair lads?”
“We be journeying from the New Forest to London,” said Ambrose. “The poor dog heard the tumult, and leapt to your aid, sir, and we made after him.”
“’Twas the saints sent him!” was the fervent answer. “And” (with a lifting of the cap) “I hereby vow to St. Julian a hound of solid bronze a foot in length, with a collar of silver, to his shrine in St. Faith’s, in token of my deliverance in body and goods! To London are ye bound? Then will we journey on together!”
They were by this time near the porch of a large country hostel, from the doors and large bay window of which light streamed out. And as the casement was open, those without could both see and hear all that was passing within.
The table was laid for supper, and in the place of honour sat a youth of some seventeen or eighteen years, gaily dressed, with a little feather curling over his crimson cap, and thus discoursing:—
“Yea, my good host, two of the rogues bear my tokens, besides him whom I felled to the earth. He came on at me with his sword, but I had my point ready for him; and down he went before me like an ox. Then came on another, but him I dealt with by the back stroke as used in the tilt-yard at Clarendon.”
“I trow we shall know him again, sir. Holy saints! to think such rascals should haunt so nigh us,” the hostess was exclaiming. “Pity for the poor goodman, Master Headley. A portly burgher was he, friendly of tongue and free of purse. I well remember him when he went forth on his way to Salisbury, little thinking, poor soul, what was before him. And is he truly sped?”
“I tell thee, good woman, I saw him go down before three of their pikes. What more could I do but drive my horse over the nearest rogue who was rifling him?”
“If he were still alive—which Our Lady grant!—the knaves will hold him to ransom,” quoth the host, as he placed a tankard on the table.
“I am afraid he is past ransom,” said the youth, shaking his head. “But an if he be still in the rogues’ hands and living, I will get me on to his house in Cheapside, and arrange with his mother to find the needful sum, as befits me, I being his heir and about to wed his daughter. However, I shall do all that in me lies to get the poor old seignior out of the hands of the rogues. Saints defend me!”
“The poor old seignior is much beholden to thee,” said Master Headley, advancing amid a clamour of exclamations from three or four serving-men or grooms, one protesting that he thought his master was with him, another that his horse ran away with him, one showing an arm which was actually being bound up, and the youth declaring that he rode off to bring help.
“Well wast thou bringing it,” Master Headley answered. “I might be still standing bound like an eagle displayed, against yonder tree, for aught