Martin Valliant did not tarry long under the thorn tree. He knelt for a moment to listen, and then started on his way around the mere¹, crawling on hands and knees through the rich rank grass that grew near the water. It was wet with dew, and the brown sorrel and the great white daisies brushed against his face. The smell of the green growth touched him like a subtle, clinging memory. He did not think of death or wounds, but only of Mellis and what might happen to her if he failed.  
Skirting the mere, he came to the sluice² ditch, all choked with shrubs³ and brambles. The ditch was less than two hundred paces from the causeway, and about the same distance from the shelter of leaves, and Martin scrambled⁴ down and took cover in spite of the thorns and brambles. He half stood and half lay, with his head and shoulders above the bank, and a stunted⁵ thorn stretching a canopy⁶ above him. He could see the two fires, and Fulk de Lisle’s red figure. Mellis’s bower⁷ lay between the sluice ditch and the camp fires; Martin could not pick it out of the darkness, though he strained his eyes till the lids began to flicker⁸.
 
Still, he knew where she lay, and there was nothing for him to do but to lie still and wait for Swartz’s horn. He could feel his heart beating as he leaned against the grassy⁹ bank. Every nerve and muscle in him seemed a-quiver. He fingered the point and edge of his knife, and smiled.
 
Then a strange thought came to him. What if he failed—what if he found the adventure hopeless?
 
He would die—he meant to die in such a case—but Mellis would be living. He would go out into the great darkness leaving her alone. Rough hands might do what they pleased with her. Fulk de Lisle would come down full of his wine, violent and inflamed¹⁰.
 
Martin fondled his knife. One blow, and all that would be saved. And yet he recoiled¹¹ from the thought with a spasm¹² of tenderness and horror. To strike that white body of hers, to hear her cry out, to know that her blood was flowing! The passion in him hardened to an iron frenzy¹³. He would not fail; no strength should master him; nothing should say him nay¹⁴.
 
Martin Valliant had fought through those moments of a man’s strong anguish¹⁵ when Swartz’s horn brayed¹⁶ in the deeps of the beech¹⁷ wood. Martin did not wait to see what would happen. He was out of the ditch and running through the long grass like a greyhound loosed after a hare. He knew where the shelter of leaves should be; that was all that mattered.
 
And yet his senses were dimly aware of other things that were happening. Swartz was shouting like a madman, “At them! At them! Cut the swine to pieces!” Fulk de Lisle had sprung to his feet and was facing toward the beech wood; his men were rushing to arms. The fellows on the causeway had left their post and were trailing across the grass to join their comrades by the fires.
 
Martin went like the wind, conscious of a wild exultation¹⁸. A black shape loomed¹⁹ in front of him, like a hay-cock in a field. He reached it, fell on his knees, and crawled into its shadow.
 
“Mellis!”
 
He heard her cry out.
 
“Martin—Martin—oh, my comrade!”
 
“Don’t speak, child. I must cut those ropes.”
 
He groped for her right arm, found it, and cut the thong²⁰ that fastened her wrist to the stake. To free her left arm he had to lean over her body, but the second rope was cut, and of a sudden he felt her arms about him.
 
“Martin!”
 
Her great joy and her love would not be stifled²¹. Her arms held him close, and for a moment he lay on her bosom²², feeling her breath on his face, and the beating of her heart answering his.
 
“My own dear mate——”
 
“Child, it is life and death.”
 
He freed himself, and cut the ropes that bound her ankles.
 
“Come.”
 
She was up like a blown leaf, holding the cloak over her bosom with one hand, and running at his side. Martin looked back at the fires. Confusion still fooled Fulk de Lisle and his men. There was much running to and fro and shouting under the beech trees, and no grasping, as yet, of the trick that had been played them.
 
Martin felt himself touched upon the shoulder.
 
“You are all wet, dear comrade.”
 
“I had to swim across.”
 
She gave an exquisite²³, shy laugh.
 
“The mere is an old friend. You will not have to carry me.”
 
There flashed on Martin Valliant a swift new consciousness of her as a woman, a woman who trusted him as a bird flies to its mate. A great white light had blazed for him, lighting²⁴ such an awe²⁵ of her that the very thought of touching²⁶ her had seemed sacrilege. And now a miraculous²⁷ thing had happened. Her arms had held him; she was not afraid; and in the soft darkness her eyes sought his. His awe of her melted to a deep and exultant²⁸ tenderness. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, that he was ready to die for her, that she was the most wonderful and adorable thing in the whole world.
 
He touched her hand.
 
“Have no fear,” he said, “for no harm shall come to you.”
 
“Fear! I have no fear of you.”
 
“God be thanked. We have been close to the edge of hell, Mellis, you and I, to-day.”
 
He heard her draw her breath as though in pain.
 
“Let me forget it—let me forget it.”
 
The mere lay at their feet, black and still and welcoming. There was no pursuit as yet, though Fulk de Lisle was turning his eyes and his thoughts to Mellis and the shelter of leaves.
 
“Blessed water!”
 
She stepped confidently into the mere, and went forward till the water rose above her waist.
 
“S-sh! How sweet and cold it is! Martin—my cloak!”
 
She had folded it over her bosom and shoulders.
 
“There is no saving it,” and she laughed softly; “the thing must get soaked.”
 
“Give it to me. I can carry it above my head.”
 
“No, no; something else must serve. Mother of Heaven—they are after us—at last!”
 
She let the cloak drop, and left it floating as she dipped to the water and struck out for the island.............