The Moat House stood not far from the rough forest road.  Externally, it was a compact rectangle of red stone, flanked at each corner by a round tower, pierced for archery and battlemented at the top.  Within, it enclosed a narrow court.  The moat was perhaps twelve feet wide, crossed by a single drawbridge.  It was supplied with water by a trench, leading to a forest pool and commanded, through its whole length, from the battlements of the two southern towers.  Except that one or two tall and thick trees had been suffered to remain within half a bowshot of the walls, the house was in a good posture for defence.  
In the court, Dick found a part of the garrison, busy with preparations for defence, and gloomily discussing the chances of a siege.  Some were making arrows, some sharpening swords that had long been disused; but even as they worked, they shook their heads.
 
Twelve of Sir Daniel’s party had escaped the battle, run the gauntlet through the wood, and come alive to the Moat House.  But out of this dozen, three had been gravely wounded: two at Risingham in the disorder of the rout, one by John Amend-All’s marksmen as he crossed the forest.  This raised the force of the garrison, counting Hatch, Sir Daniel, and young Shelton, to twenty-two effective men.  And more might be continually expected to arrive.  The danger lay not therefore in the lack of men.
 
It was the terror of the Black Arrow that oppressed the spirits of the garrison.  For their open foes of the party of York, in these most changing times, they felt but a far-away concern.  “The world,” as people said in those days, “might change again” before harm came.  But for their neighbours in the wood, they trembled.  It was not Sir Daniel alone who was a mark for hatred.  His men, conscious of impunity, had carried themselves cruelly through all the country.  Harsh commands had been harshly executed; and of the little band that now sat talking in the court, there was not one but had been guilty of some act of oppression or barbarity.  And now, by the fortune of war, Sir Daniel had become powerless to protect his instruments; now, by the issue of some hours of battle, at which many of them had not been present, they had all become punishable traitors to the State, outside the buckler of the law, a shrunken company in a poor fortress that was hardly tenable, and exposed upon all sides to the just resentment of their victims.  Nor had there been lacking grisly advertisements of what they might expect.
 
At different periods of the evening and the night, no fewer than seven riderless horses had come neighing in terror to the gate.  Two were from Selden’s troop; five belonged to men who had ridden with Sir Daniel to the field.  Lastly, a little before dawn, a spearman had come staggering to the moat side, pierced by three arrows; even as they carried him in, his spirit had departed; but by the words that he uttered in his agony, he must have been the last survivor of a considerable company of men.
 
Hatch himself showed, under his sun-brown, the pallour of anxiety; and when he had taken Dick aside and learned the fate of Selden, he fell on a stone bench and fairly wept.  The others, from where they sat on stools or doorsteps in the sunny angle of the court, looked at him with wonder and alarm, but none ventured to inquire the cause of his emotion.
 
“Nay, Master Shelton,” said Hatch, at last—“nay, but what said I?  We shall all go.  Selden was a man of his hands; he was like a brother to me.  Well, he has gone second; well, we shall all follow!  For what said their knave rhyme?—‘A black arrow in each black heart.’  Was it not so it went?  Appleyard, Selden, Smith, old Humphrey gone; and there lieth poor John Carter, crying, poor sinner, for the priest.”
 
Dick gave ear.  Out of a low window, hard by where they were talking, groans and murmurs came to his ear.
 
“Lieth he there?” he asked.
 
“Ay, in the second porter’s chamber,” answered Hatch.  “We could not bear him further, soul and body were so bitterly at odds.  At every step we lifted him, he thought to wend.  But now, methinks, it is the soul that suffereth.  Ever for the priest he crieth, and Sir Oliver, I wot not why, still cometh not.  ’Twill be a long shrift; but poor Appleyard and poor Selden, they had none.”
 
Dick stooped to the window and looked in.  The little cell was low and dark, but he could make out the wounded soldier lying moaning on his pallet.
 
“Carter, poor friend, how goeth it?” he asked.
 
“Master Shelton,” returned the man, in an excited whisper, “for the dear light of heaven, bring the priest.  Alack, I am sped; I am brought very low down; my hurt is to the death.  Ye may do me no more service; this shall be the last.  Now, for my poor soul’s interest, and as a loyal gentleman, bestir you; for I have that matter on my conscience that shall drag me deep.”
 
He groaned, and Dick heard the grating of his teeth, whether in pain or terror.
 
Just then Sir Daniel appeared upon the threshold of the hall.  He had a letter in one hand.
 
“Lads,” he said, “we have had a shog, we have had a tumble; wherefore, then, deny it?  Rather it imputeth to get speedily again to saddle.  This old Harry the Sixt has had the undermost.  Wash we, then, our hands of him.  I have a good friend that rideth next the duke, the Lord of Wensleydale.  Well, I have writ a letter to my friend, praying his good lordship, and offering large satisfaction for the past and reasonable surety for the future.  Doubt not but he will lend a favourable ear.  A prayer without gifts is like a song without music: I surfeit him with promises, boys—I spare not to promise.  What, then, is lacking?  Nay, a great thing—wherefore should I deceive you?—a great thing and a difficult: a messenger to bear it.  The woods—y’ are not ignorant of that—lie thick with our ill-willers.  Haste is most needful; but without sleight and caution all is naught.  Which, then, of this company will take me this letter, bear me it to my Lord of Wensleydale, and bring me the answer back?”
 
One man instantly arose.
 
“I will, an’t like you,” said he.  “I will even risk my carcase.”
 
“Nay, Dicky Bowyer, not so,” returned the knight.  “It likes me not.  Y’ are sly indeed, but not speedy.  Ye were a laggard ever.”
 
“An’t be so, Sir Daniel, here am I,” cried another.
 
“The saints forfend!” said the knight.  “Y’ are speedy, but not sly.  Ye would blunder me headforemost into John Amend-All’s camp.  I thank you both for your good courage; but, in sooth, it may not be.”
 
Then Hatch offered himself, and he also was refused.
 
“I want you here, good Bennet; y’ are my right hand, indeed,” returned the knight; and then several coming forward in a group, Sir Daniel at length selected one and gave him the letter.
 
“Now,” he said, “upon your good speed and better discretion we do all depend.  Bring me a good answer back, and before three weeks, I will have purged my forest of these vagabonds that brave us to our faces.  But mark it well, Throgmorton: the matter is not easy.  Ye must steal forth under night, and go like a fox; and how ye are to cross Till I know not, neither by the bridge nor ferry.”
 
“I can swim,” returned Throgmorton.  “I will come soundly, fear not.”
 
“Well, friend, get ye to the buttery,” replied Sir Daniel.  “Ye shall swim first of all in nut-brown ale.”  And with that he turned back into the hall.
 
“Sir Daniel hath a wise tongue,” said Hatch, aside, to Dick.  “See, now, where many a lesser man had glossed the matter over, he speaketh it out plainly to his company.  Here is a danger, ’a saith, and here difficulty; and jesteth in the very saying.  Nay, by Saint Barbary, he is a born captain!  Not a man but he is some deal heartened up!  See how they fall again to work.”
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