"Nay, nay!" cried the Ferret. "It would be a sad thing if a man of my position was worth less than five thousand."
"A thousand will suffice, fair sir, to pay my charges for the war. You will not again play the spy, nor do us harm until the truce is broken."
"That I will swear."
"And lastly there is a journey that you shall make."
The Frenchman's face lengthened. "Where you order I must go," said he; "but I pray you that it is not to the Holy Land."
"Nay," said Nigel; "but it is to a land which is holy to me. You will make your way back to Southampton."
"I know it well. I helped to burn it down some years ago."
"I rede you to say nothing of that matter when you get there. You will then journey as though to London until you come to a fair town named Guildford."
"I have heard of it. The King hath a hunt there."
"The same. You will then ask for a house named Cosford, two leagues from the town on the side of a long hill."
"I will bear it in mind."
"At Cosford you will see a good knight named Sir John Buttesthorn, and you will ask to have speech with his daughter, the Lady Mary."
"I will do so; and what shall I say to the Lady Mary, who lives at Cosford on the slope of a long hill two leagues from the fair town of Guildford?"
"Say only that I sent my greeting, and that Saint Catharine has been my friend--only that and nothing more. And now leave me, I pray you, for my head is weary and I would fain have sleep."
Thus it came about that a month later on the eve of the Feast of Saint Matthew, the Lady Mary, as she walked front Cosford gates, met with a strange horseman, richly clad, a serving-man behind him, looking shrewdly about him with quick blue eyes, which twinkled from a red and freckled face. At sight of her he doffed his hat and reined his horse.
"This house should be Cosford," said he. "Are you by chance the Lady Mary who dwells there?"
The lady bowed her proud dark head.
"Then," said he, "Squire Nigel Loring sends you greeting and tells you that Saint Catharine has been his friend." Then turning to his servant he cried: "Heh, Raoul, our task is done! Your master is a free man once more. Come, lad, come, the nearest port to France! Hola! Hola! Hola!" And so without a word more the two, master and man, set spurs to their horses and galloped like madmen down the long slope of Hindhead, until as she looked after them they were but two dark dots in the distance, waist-high in the ling and the bracken.