"
"We will ride together, Mary," said Nigel, rising; then in a lower
voice: "But we cannot go alone, and if we take a servant all is
known. I pray you to stay at home and leave the matter with me."
"Nay, Nigel, she may sorely need a woman's aid, and what woman
should it be save her own sister? I can take my tire-woman with
us."
"Nay, I shall ride with you myself if your impatience can keep
within the powers of my mule," said the old priest.
"But it is not your road, father?"
"The only road of a true priest is that which leads to the good of
others. Come, my children, and we will go together."
And so it was that stout Sir John Buttesthorn, the aged Knight of
Duplin, was left alone at his own high table, pretending to eat,
pretending to drink, fidgeting in his seat, trying hard to seem
unconcerned with his mind and body in a fever, while below him his
varlets and handmaids laughed and jested, clattering their cups
and clearing their trenchers, all unconscious of the dark shadow
which threw its gloom over the lonely man upon the dais above.
Meantime the Lady Mary upon the white jennet which her sister had
ridden on the same evening, Nigel on his war-horse, and the priest
on the mule, clattered down the rude winding road which led to
London. The country on either side was a wilderness of heather
moors and of morasses from which came the strange crying of
night-fowl.
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