him. the few hours that had

passed since he saw the abbey tower stretched out in his memory

until they outgrew whole months of the stagnant life of the

cloister. as he walked and munched the soft bread from his

scrip, it seemed strange to him to feel that it was still warm

from the ovens of beaulieu.

when he passed penerley, where were three cottages and a barn, he

reached the edge of the tree country, and found the great barren

heath of blackdown stretching in front of him, all pink with

heather and bronzed with the fading ferns. on the left the woods

were still thick, but the road edged away from them and wound

over the open. the sun lay low in the west upon a purple cloud,

whence it threw a mild, chastening light over the wild moorland

and glittered on the fringe of forest turning the withered leaves

into flakes of dead gold, the brighter for the black depths

behind them. to the seeing eye decay is as fair as growth, and

death as life. the thought stole into alleyne's heart as he

looked upon the autumnal country side and marvelled at its

beauty. he had little time to dwell upon it however, for there

were still six good miles between him and the nearest inn. he

sat down by the roadside to partake of his bread and cheese, and

then with a lighter scrip he hastened upon his way.

there appeared to be more wayfarers on the down than in the

forest. first he passed two dominicans in their long black

dresses, who swept by him with downcast looks and pattering lips,

without so much as a glance at him. then there came a gray

friar, or minorite, with a good paunch upon him, walking slowly

and looking about him with the air of a man who was at peace with

himself and with all men. he stopped alleyne to ask him whether

it was not true that there was a hostel somewhere in those parts

which was especially famous for the stewing of eels. the clerk

having made answer that he had heard the eels of sowley well

spoken of, the friar sucked in his lips and hurried forward.

close at his heels came three laborers walking abreast, with

spade and mattock over their shoulders. they sang some rude

chorus right tunefully as they walked, but their english was so

coarse and rough that to the ears of a cloister-bred man it

sounded like a foreign and barbarous tongue. one of them carried

a young bittern which they had caught upon the moor, and they

offered it to alleyne for a silver groat. very glad he was to

get safely past them, for, with their bristling red beards and

their fierce blue eyes, they were uneasy men to bargain with upon

a lonely moor.

yet it is not always the burliest and the wildest who are the

most to be dreaded. the workers looked hungrily at him, and then

jogged onwards upon their way in slow, lumbering saxon style. a

worse man to deal with was a wooden-legged cripple who came

hobbling down the path, so weak and so old to all appearance that

a child need not stand in fear of him. yet when alleyne had

passed him, of a sudden, out of pure devilment, he screamed out a

curse at him, and sent a jagged flint stone hurtling past his

ear. so horrid was the causeless rage of the crooked creature,

that the clerk came over a cold thrill, and took to his heels

until he was out of shot from stone or word. it seemed to him

that in this country of england there was no protection for a man

save that which lay in the strength of his own arm and the speed

of his own foot. in the cloisters he had heard vague talk of the

law--the mighty law which was higher than prelate or baron, yet

no sign could he see of it. what was the benefit of a law

written fair upon parchment, he wondered, if there were no

officers to enforce it. as it tell out, however, he had that

very evening, ere the sun had set, a chance of seeing how stern

was the grip of the english law when it did happen to seize the

offender.

a mile or so out upon the moor the road takes a very sudden dip

into a hollow, with a peat-colored stream running swiftly down

the centre of it. to the right of this stood, and stands to this

day, an ancient barrow, or burying mound, covered deeply in a

bristle of heather and bracken. alleyne was plodding down the

slope upon one side, when he saw an old dame coming towards him

upon the other, limping with weariness and leaning heavily upon a

stick. when she reached the edge of the stream she stood

helpless, looking to right and to left for some ford. where the

path ran down a great stone had been fixed in the centre of the

brook, but it was too far from the bank for her aged and

uncertain feet. twice she thrust forward at it, and twice she

drew back, until at last, giving up in despair, she sat herself

down by the brink and wrung her hands wearily. there she still

sat when alleyne reached the crossing.

"come, mother," quoth he, "it is not so very per