"Jacob, heard you that?
A priest--a man of God! one man against a hundred! Canst thou stand by and see such a one hunted to death?
that cannot I." Jacob cared little for priests--indeed, he had no very good opinion of the race, and none of Cuthbert's traditional reverence; but he had all an Englishman's love of fair play, and hated the cruelty and cowardice of an angry mob as he hated anything mean and vile, and he doubled back his wrist bands and clinched his horny fists as he answered: "I am with thee, good Cuthbert.

We will stand for the weaker side.
Priest or no, he shall not be hounded to death in the streets without one blow struck in his defence.

But how to find him in this fog ?" "We need not fight; that were mere madness," answered Cuthbert in rapid tones.

"Ours is to hurry the fugitive into the wherry, loose from shore, and out into the river; and then they may seek as they will, they can never find us.

Mist! hark! the cries come nigher.