Then they turned and entered the old church—­one of the first that ever was in Britain, rough-built of Roman stone by the very hands of Chad, the Saxon saint, more than five hundred years before their day.  Here they knelt a while at the rude altar and prayed, each of them in his or her own fashion, then crossed themselves, and rose to seek their horses, which were tied in the shed hard by.

Now there were two roads, or rather tracks, back to the Hall at Steeple—­one a mile or so inland, that ran through the village of Bradwell, and the other, the shorter way, along the edge of the Saltings to the narrow water known as Death Creek, at the head of which the traveller to Steeple must strike inland, leaving the Priory of Stangate on his right.  It was this latter path they chose, since at low tide the going there is good for horses—­which, even in the summer, that of the inland track was not.  Also they wished to be at home by supper-time, lest the old knight, Sir Andrew D’Arcy, the father of Rosamund and the uncle of the orphan brethren, should grow anxious, and perhaps come out to seek them.

For the half of an hour or more they rode along the edge of the Saltings, for the most part in silence that was broken only by the cry of curlew and the lap of the turning tide.  No human being did they see, indeed, for this place was very desolate and unvisited, save now and again by fishermen.  At length, just as the sun began to sink, they approached the shore of Death Creek—­a sheet of tidal water which ran a mile or more inland, growing ever narrower, but was here some three hundred yards in breadth.  They were well mounted, all three of them.  Indeed, Rosamund’s horse, a great grey, her father’s gift to her, was famous in that country-side for its swiftness and power, also because it was so docile that a child could ride it; while those of the brethren were heavy-built but well-trained war steeds, taught to stand where they were left, and to charge when they were urged, without fear of shouting men or flashing steel.

Now the ground lay thus.  Some seventy yards from the shore of Death Creek and parallel to it, a tongue of land, covered with scrub and a few oaks, ran down into the Saltings, its point ending on their path, beyond which were a swamp and the broad river.  Between this tongue and the shore of the creek the track wended its way to the uplands.  It was an ancient track; indeed the reason of its existence was that here the Romans or some other long dead hands had built a narrow mole or quay of rough stone, forty or fifty yards in length, out into the water of the creek, doubtless to serve as a convenience for fisher boats, which could lie alongside of it even at low tide.  This mole had been much destroyed by centuries of washing, so that the end of it lay below water, although the landward part was still almost sound and level.

Coming over the little rise at the top of the wooded tongue, the quick eyes of Wulf, who rode first—­for here the path along the border of the swamp was so narrow that they must go in single file—­caught sight of a large, empty boat moored to an iron ring set in the wall of the mole.