In the midst rode St. Petroc, his crozier tucked under his
arm, astride a white mule with scarlet ear-tassels and bells and a
saddle of scarlet leather. He gazed across the sands to the sea, and
turned to St. Neot, who towered at his side upon a flea-bitten grey.
"The parish seems to be deserted," said he: "not a man nor woman can I
see, nor a trace of smoke above the chimneys."
St. Neot tightened his thin lips. In his secret heart he was mightily
pleased.
"Eight in the morning," he answered, with a glance back at the sun.
"They'll be all abed, I'll warrant you."
St. Petroc muttered a threat.
They entered the village street. Not a soul turned out at their
coming. Every cottage door was fast closed, nor could any amount of
knocking elicit an answer or entice a face to a window. In gathering
wrath the visiting saints rode along the sea-shore to St. Piran's
small hut.
Here the door stood open: but the hut was empty. A meagre breakfast of
herbs was set out on the table, and a brand new scourge lay somewhat
ostentatiously beside the platter.
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