Being now once more a workman, and working with this loyal lass so many hours a day, his spirits rose a little, and his nerves began to recover their tone.

But meantime Hill was maturing his dark design.

In going home, Little passed through one place he never much liked, it was a longish close, with two sharp rectangular turns.

Since he was threatened by the trade, he never entered this close without looking behind him.  He did not much fear an attack in front, being always armed with pistols now.

On a certain night he came to this place as usual, went as far as the first turn, then looked sharply round to see if he was followed; but there was nobody behind except a woman, who was just entering the court.  So he went on.

But a little way down this close was a small public-house, and the passage-door was ajar, and a man watching.  No sooner was Little out of sight than he emerged, and followed him swiftly on tiptoe.

The man had in his hand a weapon that none but a Hillsborough cutler would have thought of; yet, as usual, it was very fit for the purpose, being noiseless and dangerous, though old-fashioned.  It was a long strong bow, all made of yew-tree.  The man fitted an arrow to this, and running lightly to the first turn, obtained a full view of Little’s retiring figure, not fifteen yards distant.

So well was the place chosen, that he had only to discharge his weapon and then run back.  His victim could never see him.

He took a deliberate aim at Little’s back, drew the arrow to the head, and was about to loose it, when a woman’s arm was flung round his neck.

CHAPTER XXXII.

Coventry and Cole met that night near a little church.

Hill was to join them, and tell them the result.

Now, as it happens, Little went home rather late that night; so these confederates waited, alternately hoping and fearing, a considerable time.

Presently, something mysterious occurred that gave them a chill.  An arrow descended, as if from the clouds, and stuck quivering on a grave not ten yards from them.  The black and white feathers shone clear in the moonlight.

To Coventry it seemed as if Heaven was retaliating on him.

The more prosaic but quick-witted cutler, after the first stupefaction, suspected it was the very arrow destined for Little, and said so.

“And Heaven flings it back to us,” said Coventry, and trembled in every limb.

“Heaven has naught to do in it.  The fool has got drunk, and shot it in the air.  Anyway, it mustn’t stick there to tell tales.”

Cole vaulted over the church-yard wall, drew it out of the grave, and told Coventry to hide it.

“Go you home,” said he.  “I’ll find out what this means.”

Hill’s unexpected assailant dragged him back so suddenly and violently that the arrow went up at an angle of forty-five, and, as the man loosed the string to defend himself, flew up into the sky, and came down full a hundred yards from the place.