The rowers bent to their oars once again when this knotty point had been settled.  They rowed on steadily for a short time, and then out of the darkness came a sharp clear hail.

“Who goes there?”

“Friends.  We have caught the quarry; we are bringing him to Tyrrel.”

“Good.  He has been waiting with impatience this two hours for news.  His wound doth not make him the more patient.”

“We bring him at least the best medicine.

“Easy, lads!  Ship your oars.  Catch hold of her prow, Toby.  So here we are safe and sound, and there is the prisoner!”

Cuthbert had raised his head, and supporting himself on his left elbow was gazing about him from side to side.  He was still in the middle of the river; but the boat was now alongside a big barge moored in midstream, and from this barge several lights were gleaming, whilst voices were answering and asking questions, and the name of Tyrrel passed continually from mouth to mouth.

Then the rowers in the bow came and lifted him bodily in their arms, taking care not to be needlessly rough with the broken arm that gave him considerable pain; and so soon as he was placed upon the barge, the rope that bound his feet was cut, somebody remarking that it was needless now to hobble him, since he was safely on board and beneath the eye of the whole crew.

“And where is Tyrrel?” asked several voices.

“Below in the cabin, and waiting impatiently for news.  Go, and take the boy with you; the sight of him will be the best medicine for him.”

Cuthbert was led along, dazed and bewildered, but calm from a sense of his own helplessness, and perhaps from bodily weakness, too.  This weakness surprised him, for he did not know how much blood he had lost, and he could not account for the way in which the lights swam before his eyes and his steps reeled, as he was taken down a dark ladder-like staircase and into a low long room with a swinging lamp suspended from the ceiling.  It felt close and airless after the coldness of the night, and everything swam in a mist before his eyes; but he heard a voice not altogether unfamiliar say in authoritative accents:  “Let him sit down, and give him a stoup of wine;” and presently his vision cleared, and he found himself sitting at one side of a rude table opposite the highway chieftain Tyrrel, whose face he well remembered.  They were surrounded by a ring of stalwart men, some of whose faces were vaguely familiar to him from having been seen at the old mill a year ago from now.

He noted that Tyrrel’s face was pale, and that his head was bandaged.  It was plain that he had received recent injuries, and apparently these did not smooth his temper.  His face was dark and stern, and the eyes that looked straight at Cuthbert gleamed ominously beneath their heavy brows.

“Well, boy,” he said at length, seeing Cuthbert’s gaze fasten upon him with inquiry and recognition, “so we meet again.”