The Bishop chafed at the delay this must involve, yet rejoiced at the
prompt beginning of the homeward journey, having secretly feared lest
Hugh should find some difficulty in persuading his bride to set forth
with him.
After all, they were but two days ahead of the messenger who, by fast
riding, might overtake them on the morrow. Mistress Deborah, even on a
pillion, should prove a substantial impediment to rapid progress.
But, alas, before noon on the day following, Brother Philip appeared in
haste, with an anxious countenance.
The messenger had returned, footsore and exhausted, bruised and
wounded, with scarce a rag to his back.
In the forest, while still ten miles from Warwick, overtaken by the
darkness, he had met a band of robbers, who had taken his horse and all
he possessed, leaving him for dead, in a ditch by the wayside. Being
but stunned and badly bruised, when he came to himself he thought it
best to make his way back to Worcester and there report his
misadventure.
The Bishop listened to this luckless tale in silence.
When it was finished he said, gently: "My good Philip, thou art proved
right, and I, wrong. Had I been guided by thee, I should not have lost
a good horse, nor--which is of greater importance at this
juncture--twenty-four hours of most precious time."
Brother Philip made a profound obeisance, looking deeply ashamed of his
own superior foresight and wisdom, and miserably wishful that the
Reverend Father had been right, and he, wrong.
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