“By all means,” said Dunstan, “and then we may slacken this furious pace.”

They were quite out of sight of their pursuers when, coming upon a track of dry stony ground, they suddenly left the road, and crossing a wild heath, put a copse between them and the enemy, who did not this time discover for miles the absence of the footprints, for the soil was very dry and hard, the storm not having passed that way, and the foe were intent upon hard riding.

So they gained a long start, and eventually reached a hill, from which they obtained their first view of the sea.  It was eventide, and the western sun, sinking towards the promontories beyond the distant Exe, reddened the waters with his glowing light.  Dunstan and his brethren thanked God.

“We have come to the setting sun,” said they, “and at eventide have seen light; let us thank Him Who hath preserved us.”

But the guide, who knew what relentless pursuers were yet behind, would allow them no rest.  In another hour they reached a small fishing village on the coast, where a solitary bark was kept.  The owner was just about to put out for an evening’s fishing, but at the earnest request of his visitors, backed by much gold, he consented to take them over to the opposite coast.

“The weather promises to be very clear and fine,” he said; “and we may sail across without any danger.”

It was indeed a lovely night; they stepped on board, the anchor was loosed, the sail set, and with the wind behind, they stood rapidly out to sea.  They were quite silent, each immersed in his own thoughts.  At last they heard the sound of horsemen galloping on the fast-receding shore, and looking back, they saw twelve riders reach the beach, and pause, looking wistfully out to sea.

“Our soul is escaped, even as a bird out of the snare of the fowler; the snare is broken, and we are delivered,” said Dunstan.

“Our help standeth in the name of the Lord, Who hath made heaven and earth,” replied Father Guthlac.

Meanwhile, Alfred rapidly gained strength.  Happily no bones were broken, he was only sadly bruised.  The next day he expressed his earnest wish to return home, but his host would not permit him, saying he should have to answer to Dunstan some day for his guest.

The time passed monotonously enough that second day, yet not unpleasantly:  there were a thousand things to observe in the woods and marshes around, full of animal life.

Early in the morning, a sweet fresh morning, the cowherd drove his cattle forth to graze, where he knew the pastures were sweetest, and Alfred would willingly have gone, too, but they told him he must rest.  So he took his breakfast of hot milk and bread, with oat cakes baked on the hearth, and waited patiently till the warmth of the day tempted him out, under the care of Oswy, to watch the distant herd, to drink of the clear spring or recline under some huge spreading beech, while the breeze made sweet melodies in his ears, and lulled him pleasantly to sleep.