“His vengeance, friar?”

“There will be torture and death busy hereabouts tomorrow, my son, for, the prisoners being gone, so will Sir Gui vent his anger on the townsfolk—­’tis ever his custom—­”

“Ha!” quoth my Beltane, knitting his brows, “I had not thought on this!”—­and with the word, he turned him back, drawing on his hood of mail.

“Come, lord,” whispered Black Roger in his ear, “let us be going while yet we may.”

“Aye, come, my son,” spake the friar, low-voiced.  “Tarry not, Belsaye is in the hand of God!  Nay, what would you?”

“I must go back,” said Beltane, loosening sword in scabbard, “for needs must I this night have word with Gui of Allerdale.”

“Nay,” whispered the friar, with pleading hand on Beltane’s arm, “’tis thing impossible—­”

“Yet must I try, good brother—­”

“Ah, dear my son, ’twill be thy death—­”

“Why look you, gentle friar, I am in Belsaye, and Belsaye ’is in the hand of God!’ So fear not for me, but go you all and wait for me beyond the river.  And, if I come not within the hour, then press on with speed for Thrasfordham within Bourne, and say to Sir Benedict that, while he liveth to draw sword, so is there hope for Pentavalon.  But now—­ quick!—­where lodgeth Sir Gui?”

“Within the keep—­there is a stair doth mount within the thickness of the wall—­nay, I will be thy guide if go indeed thou must—­”

“Not so, good friar, be it thy duty to lead these prisoners to freedom and to safety within Bourne.”

“Then will I come,” whispered Roger hoarse and eager, as the friar turned slow-footed to follow the others adown the slippery stair, “beseech thee, lord, thy man am I, twice sworn to thee till death, so suffer me beside thee.”

“Nay,” said Beltane, “Pentavalon’s need of thee is greater e’en than mine, therefore will I adventure this thing alone.  Go you with the friar, my Roger, and so farewell to each.”

“God keep thee, noble son!” whispered the friar, his hand upraised in blessing:  but Roger stood, chin on breast and spake no word.

Then Beltane turned him and sped away, soft-treading in the shadow of the great keep.

The waning moon cast shadows black and long, and in these shadows Beltane crept and so, betimes, came within the outer guard-room and to the room beyond; and here beheld a low-arched doorway whence steps led upward,—­a narrow stair, gloomy and winding, whose velvet blackness was stabbed here and there by moonlight, flooding through some deep-set arrow-slit.  Up he went, and up, pausing once with breath in check, fancying he heard the stealthy sound of one who climbed behind him in the black void below; thus stayed he a moment, with eyes that strove to pierce the gloom, and with naked dagger clenched to smite, yet heard nought, save the faint whisper of his own mail, and the soft tap of his long scabbard against the wall; wherefore he presently sped on again, climbing swiftly up the narrow stair.  Thus, in a while, he beheld a door above:  a small door, yet stout and strong, a door that stood ajar, whence came a beam of yellow light.