The next morning Dick was afoot before the sun, and having dressed himself to the best advantage with the aid of the Lord Foxham’s baggage, and got good reports of Joan, he set forth on foot to walk away his impatience.  
For some while he made rounds among the soldiery, who were getting to arms in the wintry twilight of the dawn and by the red glow of torches; but gradually he strolled further afield, and at length passed clean beyond the outposts, and walked alone in the frozen forest, waiting for the sun.
 
His thoughts were both quiet and happy.  His brief favour with the Duke he could not find it in his heart to mourn; with Joan to wife, and my Lord Foxham for a faithful patron, he looked most happily upon the future; and in the past he found but little to regret.
 
As he thus strolled and pondered, the solemn light of the morning grew more clear, the east was already coloured by the sun, and a little scathing wind blew up the frozen snow.  He turned to go home; but even as he turned, his eye lit upon a figure behind, a tree.
 
“Stand!” he cried.  “Who goes?”
 
The figure stepped forth and waved its hand like a dumb person.  It was arrayed like a pilgrim, the hood lowered over the face, but Dick, in an instant, recognised Sir Daniel.
 
He strode up to him, drawing his sword; and the knight, putting his hand in his bosom, as if to seize a hidden weapon, steadfastly awaited his approach.
 
“Well, Dickon,” said Sir Daniel, “how is it to be?  Do ye make war upon the fallen?”
 
“I made no war upon your life,” replied the lad; “I was your true friend until ye sought for mine; but ye have sought for it greedily.”
 
“Nay—self-defence,” replied the knight.  “And now, boy, the news of this battle, and the presence of yon crooked devil here in mine own wood, have broken me beyond all help.  I go to Holywood for sanctuary; thence overseas, with what I can carry, and to begin life again in Burgundy or France.”
 
“Ye may not go to Holywood,” said Dick.
 
“How!  May not?” asked the knight.
 
“Look ye, Sir Daniel, this is my marriage morn,” said Dick; “and yon sun that is to rise will make the brightest day that ever shone for me.  Your life is forfeit—doubly forfeit, for my father’s death and your own practices to meward.  But I myself have done amiss; I have brought about men’s deaths; and upon this glad day I will be neither judge nor hangman.  An ye were the devil, I would not lay a hand on you.  An ye were the devil, ye might go where ye will for me.  Seek God’s forgiveness; mine ye have freely.  But to go on to Holywood is different.  I carry arms for York, and I will suffer no spy within their lines.  Hold it, then, for certain, if ye set one foot before another, I will uplift my voice and call the nearest post to seize you.”
 
“Ye mock me,” said Sir Daniel.  “I have no safety out of Holywood.”
 
“I care no more,” returned Richard.  “I let you go east, west, or south; north I will not.  Holywood is shut against you.  Go, and seek not to return.  For, once ye are gone, I will warn every post about this army, and there will be so shrewd a watch upon all pilgrims that, once again, were ye the very devil, ye would find it ruin to make the essay.”
 
“Ye doom me,” said Sir Daniel, gloomily.
 
“I doom you not,” returned Richard.  “If it so please you to set your valour against mine, come on; and though I fear it be disloyal to my party, I will take the challenge openly and fully, fight you with mine own single strength, and call for none to help me.  So ............