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That day came neither kinsman to break bread.
When it was seen that both had lain abroad,
The wolf-skins of their couches made that plain
As pike-staff, or the mole on Gillian’s cheek,
The servants stared. Some journey called them hence;
At dead of night some messenger had come
Of secret import, may be from the Queen,
And they paused not for change of raiment even.
And yet, in faith, that were but little like;
Sir Richard had scant dealings with the Court.
Still–if Northumberland were in arms again.
‘T was passing strange. No beast had gone from rack.
How had they gone, then? Who looked on them last?
Up rose the withered butler, he it was:
They supped together, of no journey spoke,
Spoke little, ‘t was their custom; after meal
The master’s brother sallied forth alone,
The master stayed within. “That did he not,”
Quoth one, “I saw Sir Richard in the close
I’ the moonrise.” “‘T was eleven on the stroke,”
Said Gillian softly, “he, or ‘t was his ghost–
Methought his face was whiter than my smock–
Passed through the courtyard, and so into house.
Yet slept he not there!” And that other one,
The guest unwelcome, kinsman little loved
(How these shrewd varlets turn us inside out
At kitchen-conclaves, over our own wine!)
Him had no eye seen since he issued forth
As curfew sounded. “Call me lying knave”–
He of the venison-pasty had the word–
“And let me nevermore dip beak in ale
Or sit at trencher with good smoking meat,
If I heard not, in middle of the night,
The cock crow thrice, and took it for a sign.”
“So, marry, ‘t was–that thou wert drunk again.”
But no one laughed save he that made the jest,
Which often happens. The long hours wore on,
And gloaming fell. Then came another day,
And then another, until seven dawns
In Time’s slow crucible ran ruddy gold
And overflowed the gray horizon’s edge;
And yet no hosts at table–an ill thing!
And now ‘t was on the eve of Michaelmas.

What could it mean? From out their lethargy
At last awaking, searchers in hot haste,
Some in the saddle, some afoot with hounds,
Scoured moor and woodland, dragged the neighboring weirs
And salmon-streams, and watched the wily hawk
Slip from his azure ambush overhead,
With ever a keen eye for carrion:
But no man found, nor aught that once was man.
By land they went not; went they water-ways?
Might be, from Bideford or Ilfracombe.
Mayhap they were in London, who could tell?
God help us! do men melt into the air?
Yet one there was whose dumb unlanguaged love
Had all revealed, had they but given heed.
Across the threshold of the armor-room
The savage mastiff stretched himself, and starved.

Now where lags he, upon what alehouse bench
‘Twixt here and London, who shall lift this weight?
Were he not slain upon the Queen’s highway
Ere he reached Town, or tumbled into ford
With too much sack-and-sugar under belt,
Then was his face set homeward this same hour,
Why lingers he? Ill news, ‘t is said, flies fast,
And good news creeps; then his must needs be good
That lets the tortoise pass him on the road.
Ride, Dawkins, ride! by flashing tarn and fen
And haunted hollow! Look not where in chains
On Hounslow heath the malefactor hangs,
A lasting terror! Give thy roan jade spur,
And spare her not! All Devon waits for thee,
Thou, for the moment, most important man!
A sevennight later, when the rider sent
To Town drew rein before The Falcon inn
Under the creaking of the windy sign,
And slipped from saddle with most valorous call
For beer to wash his throat out, then confessed
He brought no scrap of any honest news,
The last hope died, and so the quest was done.
“They far’d afoot,” quoth one, “but where God wot.”