Into that wood the horse-tracks led, by a path on which there was
but room for one horse at a time.
"Here they are at last!" cried Ivo. "I see the fresh footmarks of men, as
well as horses. Push on, knights and men at-arms."
The Abbot looked at the dark, dripping wood, and meditated.
"I think that it will be as well for some of us to remain here; and,
spreading our men along the woodside, prevent the escape of the villains.
_A moi, hommes d'armes!_"
"As you like. I will go in and bolt the rabbit; and you shall snap him up
as he comes out."
And Ivo, who was as brave as a bull-dog, thrust his horse into the path,
while the Abbot sat shivering outside. "Certain nobles of higher rank,"
says Peter de Blois, "followed his example, not wishing to rust their
armor, or tear their fine clothes, in the dank copse."
The knights and men-at-arms straggled slowly into the forest, some by the
path, some elsewhere, grumbling audibly at the black work before them. At
last the crashing of the branches died away, and all was still.
Abbot Thorold sat there upon his shivering horse, shivering himself as the
cold pierced through his wet mail; and as near an hour past, and no sign
of foe or friend appeared, he cursed the hour in which he took off the
beautiful garments of the sanctuary to endure those of the battle-field.
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