"I would I had more such. He was keen as a beagle
and secret as a mole."
"Ay, gossip, truly?" asked Sir Daniel, keenly. "And what came he
smelling up so many stairs in my poor mansion? But he will smell
no more."
"An't please you, Sir Daniel," said one, "here is a paper written
upon with some matter, pinned upon his breast."
"Give it me, arrow and all," said the knight. And when he had
taken into his hand the shaft, he continued for some time to gaze
upon it in a sullen musing. "Ay," he said, addressing Lord
Shoreby, "here is a hate that followeth hard and close upon my
heels. This black stick, or its just likeness, shall yet bring me
down. And, gossip, suffer a plain knight to counsel you; and if
these hounds begin to wind you, flee! 'Tis like a sickness--it
still hangeth, hangeth upon the limbs. But let us see what they
have written. It is as I thought, my lord; y' are marked, like an
old oak, by the woodman; to-morrow or next day, by will come the
axe. But what wrote ye in a letter?"
Lord Shoreby snatched the paper from the arrow, read it, crumpled
it between his hands, and, overcoming the reluctance which had
hitherto withheld him from approaching, threw himself on his knees
beside the body and eagerly groped in the wallet.
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