Take them," and he thrust a packet into his hand, "and this purse also.

There's plenty in it.
Away--anywhere, and lie hid out of reach a while, or they'll still your tongue.

Then I charge you on your soul, come back with help and hang that knave Abbot--for your Lady's sake, Jeffrey.

She'll reward you, and so will God above." The man thrust away purse and deeds in some deep pocket.
"How can I leave you to be butchered ?" he muttered, grinding his teeth.
As the words left his lips he heard his master utter a gurgling sound, and saw that an arrow, shot from behind, had pierced him through the throat; saw, too, he who was skilled in war, that the wound was mortal.
Then he hesitated no longer.
"Christ rest you!" he said.

"I'll do your bidding or die;" and, turning his horse, he drove the rowels into its sides, causing it to bound away like a deer.
For a moment the stricken Sir John watched him go.