So we stole forth, climbing more than one garden wall in our desire to keep concealed from the sight of any who might be about at that hour, and presently we got round to the north side of the Marketplace and went quietly up the narrow lane that leads to St. Giles’ Church. In this lane were the stables which held our beasts, and as the lane itself was paved with rough boulders it was quite impossible to bring them out by that way.
Arrived in front of the stables we held a council of war. There was evidently no one on guard; they had contented themselves with locking the horses in a separate stable. Our work, then, was to find some means of picking the lock and afterwards getting the animals out without awakening the people of the inn.
“This is the stable,” said Ben, whispering with his lips close to my ear. “I sent one of my ’prentices round when I heard they had seized your horses, and bade him find out which they were confined in. This it is—the door next to the great water-butt.”
“But how shall we pick the lock, Ben?”
“I have the necessary implements under my cloak.”
“But once inside, how can we bring out the horses without noise? Their feet will raise a clatter on these cobbles.”
“I am not sure,” said Ben, “but I have an idea that from this stable there is a door into a fold beyond. If it be so we can get away easily, Will. But if not—why, we must chance cobblestones and everything and ride for it!”
While Ben spoke he had pulled out a great chisel, with which he forced out the staple to which the padlock was attached in the stable-door, so that we entered very easily, and presently stood by the horses, who were quiet and peaceful, as though they knew themselves to be in prison.
“ ’Tis as I thought,” said Ben, “there is a door that leads into the fold. From the fold there is a gate opening into the fields. There is another lock gone, anyway. And now, Will, let us get the beasts out. There is manure in this fold right up to the stable-door, so none will hear if we walk a troop of horses across.”
Now, my own two horses, knowing my voice and the touch of my hand, came readily enough with me, and I had them out of their stalls and in Ben’s hand in the fold in a moment; but Caesar, who was never harnessed by any other hand than his master’s, was somewhat frightened, and trembled as I strove to pacify him, so that I grew anxious lest he should make a stir and bring down the landlord and his men upon us. However, by dint of coaxing and free use of his name I got him out of the stable and led him myself across the fold, Ben following with the other two horses. And presently we were out in the open fields, where we both mounted, I leading Caesar by his bridle, and Ben riding Jack’s horse. Caesar was plainly frightened and suspicious, for he knew that his master was not with him, and would now and then stop and listen as he went along, so that our progress was interrupted continually. It was necessary, too, to make a long round in getting to the appointed meeting-place, for we had to skirt the town, passing round Tanshelf and the high ground over against the Priory, before we came to the lonely house where Jack and Philip waited for us. Then indeed there was much rejoicing ’twixt Philip Lisle and his horse—nay, they could not have understood each other better if they had spoken a common tongue.
“And now, gentlemen,” said Ben, “I will go back and leave you to your own devices. Will, if thou goest to the war, I will see to the women at Dale’s Field. Make thy mind easy on that score. Jack, if thou seest fighting, remember thy old tricks. And so farewell, friends all, and God send ye good fortune and a safe return.”
And therewith he gave us a clasp of the hand and vanished into the darkness, while we, clapping spurs to our animals, set out in the direction of Dale’s Field, riding past Carleton and climbing the lower part of Went Hill, so that we might the sooner strike into the North Road.
Now, when we came to the old familiar homestead, and could just make out its roofs and gables in the darkness, a great wave of feeling came over me that I should do wrong to forsake it and those whom it sheltered. It was my duty after all to stay there and defend it and them. And so I turned my horse’s head to the orchard gate and drew rein.
“Gentlemen,” said I, “ride on and leave me here. I cannot go with you and leave all I have in these troublous times. It is best that you should go, but not that I should go with you. Go on therefore and let me stay.”
“You are right, Will,” said Philip Lisle, after a pause. “Yes, it is best that you should stay and that we should go. You shall hear of us soon. Take care of Rose, Will. And so, farewell.”
I grasped his hand and promised, and then gave my hand to Jack, who squeezed it between his own.
“Goodbye, Will,” said Jack. “I wish thou hadst gone with us, but ’tis best not, considering the women. Well, perchance we shall get news of thee. Farewell.”
And so they rode away, and I, standing at the orchard gate, heard the sound of their horses’ feet dying into silence far off along the road.
XVII
Of the Events Which Followed
I cannot deny that when I heard the last ring of the horses’ feet, and realized that Philip and Jack were gone, perhaps to great adventures, I
