The next day's journey was a pleasanter one, for there was more of
wood and heather, and they had to skirt round the marshy borders of
various bogs. Spring was happier, being able to stop and lap
whenever he would, and the whole scene was less unfriendly to them.
But they scarcely made speed enough, for they were still among tall
whins and stiff scrub of heather when the sun began to get low,
gorgeously lighting the tall plumes of golden broom, and they had
their doubts whether they might not be off the track; but in such
weather, there was nothing alarming in spending a night out of
doors, if only they had something for supper. Stephen took a bolt
from the purse at his girdle, and bent his crossbow, so as to be
ready in case a rabbit sprang out, or a duck flew up from the
marshes.

A small thicket of trees was in sight, and they were making for it,
when sounds of angry voices were heard, and Spring, bristling up the
mane on his neck, and giving a few premonitory fierce growls like
thunder, bounded forward as though he had been seven years younger.
Stephen darted after him, Ambrose rushed after Stephen, and breaking
through the trees, they beheld the dog at the throat of one of three
men. As they came on the scene, the dog was torn down and hurled
aside, giving a howl of agony, which infuriated his master. Letting
fly his crossbow bolt full at the fellow's face, he dashed on,
reckless of odds, waving his knotted stick, and shouting with rage.
Ambrose, though more aware of the madness of such an assault, still
hurried to his support, and was amazed as well as relieved to find
the charge effectual. Without waiting to return a blow, the
miscreants took to their heels, and Stephen, seeing nothing but his
dog, dropped on his knees beside the quivering creature, from whose
neck blood was fast pouring. One glance of the faithful wistful