“Our purpose being honest, the end will be good, Eve, though perhaps before all is done we may often think it evil.  And now let’s away, though I wish that you were dressed in another colour.”

“Red Eve they name me, and red is my badge, because it suits my dark face best.  Cavil not at my robe, Hugh, for it is the only dowry you will get with Eve Clavering.  How shall we go?  By the Walberswick ferry?  You have no horses.”

“Nay, but I have a skiff hidden in the reeds five miles furlongs off.  We must keep to the heath above Walberswick, for there they might know your red cloak even after dark, and I would not have you seen till we are safe with Sir Arnold in the Preceptory.  Mother of Heaven! what is that?”

“A peewit, no more,” she answered indifferently.

“Nay, it is my man Dick, calling like a peewit.  That is his sign when trouble is afoot.  Ah, here he comes.”

As he spoke a tall, gaunt man appeared, advancing towards them.  His gait was a shambling trot that seemed slow, although, in truth, he was covering the ground with extraordinary swiftness.  Moreover, he moved so silently that even on the frost-held soil his step could not be heard, and so carefully that not a reed stirred as he threaded in and out among their clumps like an otter, his head crouched down and his long bow pointed before him as though it were a spear.  Half a minute more, and he was before them—­a very strange man to see.  His years were not so many, thirty perhaps, and yet his face looked quite old because of its lack of colouring, its thinness, and the hard lines that marked where the muscles ran down to the tight, straight mouth and up to the big forehead, over which hung hair so light that at a little distance he seemed ashen-grey.  Only in this cold, rocky face, set very far apart, were two pale-blue eyes, which just now, when he chose to lift their lids that generally kept near together, as though he were half asleep, were full of fire and quick cunning.

Reaching the pair, this strange fellow dropped to his knee and raised his cap to Eve, the great lady of the Claverings—­Red Eve, as they called her through that country-side.  Then he spoke, in a low, husky voice: 

“They’re coming, master!  You and your mistress must to earth unless you mean to face them in the open,” and the pale eyes glittered as he tapped his great black bow.

“Who are coming, Dick?  Be plain, man!”

“Sir John Clavering, my lady’s father; young John, my lady’s brother; the fine French lord who wears a white swan for a crest; three of the nights, his companions; and six—­no seven—­men-at-arms.  Also from the other side of the grieve, Thomas of Kessland, and with him his marsh men and verderers.”

“And what are they coming for?” he asked again.  “Have they hounds, and hawk on wrist?”

“Nay, but they have swords and knife on thigh,” and he let his pale eyes fall on Eve.