set down his burden in stealthy fashion, he also turned and glanced back with eyes that glittered in the shadow of his hat:  then, setting one hand within his smock, he went in at the door and, soft-footed began to creep up that dark and narrow stair.  She sat in a great carven chair, her arms outstretched across the table before her, her face bowed low between, and the setting sun made a glory of her golden hair.  Of a sudden she started, and lifting her head looked upon Sir Gui; her tears, slow-falling and bitter, staining the beauty of her face.

“My lord—­ah, no!” she panted, and started to her feet.

“Dear and fair my lady—­fear not.  Strong am I, but very gentle—­’tis ever my way with beauty.  I do but come for my answer.”  And he pointed to a crumpled parchment that lay upon the table.

“O, good my lord,” she whispered, “I cannot!  If thou art gentle indeed —­then—­”

“He lieth above the water-dungeons, lady!” sighed Sir Gui.

“Ah, the sweet Christ aid me!”

“To-morrow he goeth to death, or lieth in those round, white arms.  Lady, the choice is thine:  and I pray you show pity to thy husband who loveth thee well, ’tis said.”  Now hereupon she sobbed amain and fell upon her knees with arms outstretched in passionate appeal—­but lo! she spake no word, her swimming eyes oped suddenly wide, and with arms yet outstretched she stared and stared beyond Sir Gui in so much that he turned and started back amazed—­to behold one clad as a dusty miller, a mighty man whose battered hat touched the lintel and whose great bulk filled the doorway—­a very silent man who looked and looked with neck out-thrust, yet moved not and uttered no word.  Hereupon Sir Gui spake quick and passion-choked: 

“Fool—­fool! hence, thou blundering fool.  For this shalt be flayed alive.  Ha!—­hence, thou dusty rogue!” But now this grim figure stirred, and lifting a great hand, spake hoarse and low: 

“Peace, knight!  Hold thy peace and look!” The wide-eaved hat was tossed to the floor and Sir Gui, clenching his hands, would have spoken but the harsh voice drowned his words:  “How, knight, thou that art Bloody Gui of Allerdale!  Dost thou not know me, forsooth?  I am Waldron, whose father and mother and sister ye slew.  Aye, Waldron of Brand am I, though men do call me Walkyn o’ the Dene these days.  Brand was a fair manor, knight—­a fair manor, but long since dust and ashes—­ha! a merry blaze wherein father and mother and sister burned and screamed and died—­in faith, a roguish blaze!  Ha! d’ye blench?  Dost know me, forsooth?”

Then Sir Gui stepped back, drawing his sword; but, even so, death leapt at him.  A woman, wailing, fled from the chamber, a chair crashed to the floor; came a strange, quick tapping of feet upon the floor and thereafter rose a cry that swelled louder to a scream—­louder to a bubbling shriek, and dying to a groaning hiss, was gone.

And, in a while, Walkyn, that had been Waldron of Brand, rose up from his knees, and running forth of the chamber, hasted down the dark and narrow stair.