crimsoning the white flint stones.

"it must be a stricken deer," said john.

"nay, i am woodman enough to see that no deer hath passed this

way this morning; and yet the blood is fresh. but hark to the

sound!"

they stood listening all three with sidelong heads. through the

silence of the great forest there came a swishing, whistling

sound, mingled with the most dolorous groans, and the voice of a

man raised in a high quavering kind of song. the comrades

hurried onwards eagerly, and topping the brow of a small rising

they saw upon the other side the source from which these strange

noises arose.

a tall man, much stooped in the shoulders, was walking slowly

with bended head and clasped hands in the centre of the path. he

was dressed from head to foot in a long white linen cloth, and a

high white cap with a red cross printed upon it. his gown was

turned back from his shoulders, and the flesh there was a sight

to make a man wince, for it was all beaten to a pulp, and the

blood was soaking into his gown and trickling down upon the

ground. behind him walked a smaller man with his hair touched

with gray, who was clad in the same white garb. he intoned a

long whining rhyme in the french tongue, and at the end of every

line he raised a thick cord, all jagged with pellets of lead, and

smote his companion across the shoulders until the blood spurted

again. even as the three wayfarers stared, however, there was a

sudden change, for the smaller man, having finished his song,

loosened his own gown and handed the scourge to the other, who

took up the stave once more and lashed his companion with all the

strength of his bare and sinewy arm. so, alternately beating and

beaten, they made their dolorous way through the beautiful woods

and under the amber arches of the fading beech-trees, where the

calm strength and majesty of nature might serve to rebuke the

foolish energies and misspent strivings of mankind.

such a spectacle was new to hordle john or to alleyne edricson;

but the archer treated it lightly, as a common matter enough.

"these are the beating friars, otherwise called the flagellants,"

quoth he. "i marvel that ye should have come upon none of them

before, for across the water they are as common as gallybaggers.

i have heard that there are no english among them, but that they

are from france, italy and bohemia. en avant, camarades! that we

may have speech with them."

as they came up to them, alleyne could hear the doleful dirge

which the beater was chanting, bringing down his heavy whip at

the end of each line, while the groans of the sufferer formed a

sort of dismal chorus. it was in old french, and ran somewhat in

this way:

or avant, entre nous tous freres battons nos charognes bien fort

en remembrant la grant misere de dieu et sa piteuse mort qui fut

pris en la gent amere et vendus et traia a tort et bastu sa

chair, vierge et dere au nom de se battons plus fort.

then at the end of the verse the scourge changed hands and the

chanting began anew.

"truly, holy fathers," said the archer in french as they came

abreast of them, "you have beaten enough for to-day. the road is

all spotted like a shambles at martinmas. why should ye

mishandle yourselves thus?"

"c'est pour vos peches--pour vos peches," they droned, looking at

the travellers with sad lack-lustre eyes, and then bent to their

bloody work once more without heed to the prayers and persuasions

which were addressed to them. finding all remonstrance useless,

the three comrades hastened on their way, leaving these strange

travellers to their dreary task.

"mort dieu!" cried the bowman, "there is a bucketful or more of

my blood over in france, but it was all spilled in hot fight, and

i should think twice before i drew it drop by drop as these

friars are doing. by my hilt! our young one here is as white as

a picardy cheese. what is amiss then, mon cher?"

"it is nothing," alleyne answered. "my life has been too quiet,

i am not used to such sights."

"ma foi!" the other cried, "i have never yet seen a man who was

so stout of speech and yet so weak of heart."

"not so, friend," quoth big john; "it is not weakness of heart

for i know the lad well. his heart is as good as thine or mine

but he hath more in his pate than ever you will carry under that

tin pot of thine, and as a consequence he can see farther into

things, so that they weigh upon him more."

"surely to any man it is a sad sight," said alleyne, "to see

these holy men, who have done no sin themselves, suffering so for

the sins of others. saints are they, if in this age any may

merit so high a name."

"i count them not a fly," cried hordle john; "for who is the

better for all their whipping and yowling? they are like other

friars, i trow, when all is done. let them leave their backs