even as their masters were more disposed to throw stones than to
answer questions.

By and by, on the further side of a green valley, could be seen
buildings with an encircling wall of flint and mortar faced with
ruddy brick, the dark red-tiled roofs rising among walnut-trees, and
an orchard in full bloom spreading into a long green field.

"Winchester must be nigh. The sun is getting low," said Stephen.

"We will ask. The good folk will at least give us an answer," said
Ambrose wearily.

As they reached the gate, a team of plough horses was passing in led
by a peasant lad, while a lay brother, with his gown tucked up, rode
sideways on one, whistling. An Augustinian monk, ruddy, burly, and
sunburnt, stood in the farm-yard, to receive an account of the day's
work, and doffing his cap, Ambrose asked whether Winchester were
near.

"Three mile or thereaway, my good lad," said the monk; "thou'lt see
the towers an ye mount the hill. Whence art thou?" he added,
looking at the two young strangers. "Scholars? The College elects
not yet a while."

"We be from the Forest, so please your reverence," and are bound for
Hyde Abbey, where our uncle, Master Richard Birkenholt, dwells."

"And oh, sir," added Stephen, "may we crave a drop of water for our
dog?"