rode upon, and here Jeffrey Stokes, who was ahead, held up his hand.

"What is it?" asked Sir John.

"It is the marks of ten or a dozen shod horses passed within two hours,
since the last snow fell. And who be they, I wonder?"

"Doubtless travellers like ourselves. Ride on, man; that farm is not a
mile ahead."

Then Jeffrey broke out.

"Master, I like it not," he said. "Battle-horses have gone by here, not
chapmen's or farmers' nags, and I think I know their breed. I say that
we had best turn about if we would not walk into some snare."

"Turn you, then," grumbled Sir John indifferently. "I am cold and weary,
and seek my rest."

"Pray God that you may not find it when you are colder," muttered
Jeffrey, spurring his horse.

They went on through the dead winter silence, that was broken only by
the hoots of a flitting owl hungry for the food that it could not find,
and the swish of the feet of a galloping fox as it looped past them
through the snow. Presently they came to an open place ringed in by
forest, so wet that only marsh-trees would grow there. To their right
lay a little ice-covered mere, with sere, brown reeds standing here and
there upon its face, and at the end of it a group of stark pollarded
willows, whereof the tops had been cut for poles by those who dwelt in