Neot.
This could not be answered for the moment; but the saints turned their
horses' heads from the sea, and moved slowly on the track of the
sound, which at every step grew louder and more distinct.
"_It is at no appointed hours,
It is not by the dock,
That Satan, grisly wolf, devours
The unprotected flock_"
The visitors found themselves at the foot of an enormous sand-hill,
from the top of which the chant was pouring as lava from a crater.
They set their ears to the sandy wall. They walked round it, and
listened again.
"_But ever prowls th' insidious foe,
And listens round the fold_"
This was too much. St. Petroc smote twice upon the sand-hill with his
crozier, and shouted--
"Hi, there!"
The chant ceased. For at least a couple of minutes nothing happened;
and then St. Piran's bald head was thrust cautiously forward over the
summit.
"Holy St. Petroc! Was it only you, after all? And St. Neot--and St.
Udy O, glory be!"
"Why, who did you imagine we were?" St. Petroc asked, still in
amazement.
"Why, throat-cutting Danes, to be sure, by the way you were comin'
over the hills when we spied you, three hours back.
Pages:
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98