“Master,” said Roger, wiping sweat from his face, “there’s evil hereabouts—­I’ve had a warning—­a dead man touched me as we came through the brush yonder.”

“Nay Roger, ’twas but some branch—­”

“Lord, when knew ye a branch with—­fingers—­slimy and cold—­upon my cheek here.  ’Twas a warning, master—­he dead hand!  One of us twain goeth to his death this night!”

“Let not thine heart fail therefor, good Roger:  man, being dead, liveth forever—­”

“Nay, but—­the dead hand, master—­on my cheek, here—­Ah!—­” Crying thus, Black Roger sprang and caught Beltane’s arm, gripping it fast, for on the air, borne upon the wind, yet louder than the wind, a shrill sound rang and echoed, the which, passing, seemed to have stricken the night to silence.  Then Beltane brake from Roger’s clasp, and ran on beside the river, until, beyond the sullen waters the watch-fires flared before him, in whose red light the mill loomed up rugged and grim, its massy walls scarred and cracked, its great wheel fallen to ruin.

Now above the wheel was a gap in the masonry, an opening roughly square that had been a window, mayhap, whence shone a warm, mellow light.

“Master,” panted Roger, “a God’s name—­what was it?”

“A woman screamed!” quoth Beltane, staring upon the lighted window.  As he spake a man laughed sleepily beside the nearest watch-fire, scarce a bow-shot away.

“Look’ee, master,” whispered Roger, “we may not cross by the ford because of the watch-fires—­’tis a fair light to shoot by, and the river is very deep hereabouts.”

“Yet must we swim it, Roger.”

“Lord, the water is in flood, and our armour heavy!”

“Then must we leave our armour behind,” quoth Beltane, and throwing back his hood of mail, he began to unbuckle his broad belt, but of a sudden, stayed to point with outstretched finger.  Then, looking whither he pointed, Roger saw a tree whose hole leaned far out across the stream, so that one far-flung branch well nigh scraped the broken roof of the mill.

“Yon lieth our way, Roger—­come!” said he.

Being come to that side of the tree afar from the watch-fires, Beltane swung himself lightly and began to climb, but hearing a groan, paused.

“Roger,” he whispered, “what ails thee, Roger?”

“Alas!” groaned Roger, “’tis my wound irketh me; O master, I cannot follow thee this way!”

“Nay, let me aid thee,” whispered Beltane, reaching down to him.  But, despite Beltane’s strong hand, desperately though he tried, Black Roger fell back, groaning.

“Master,” he pleaded, “O master, adventure not alone lest ill befall thee.”  “Aye, but I must, Roger.”

Then Roger leaned his head upon his sound arm, and wept full bitterly.

“O master,—­O sweet lord,” quoth he, “bethink thee now of the warning—­ the dead hand—­”

“Yet must I go, my Roger.”

“Then—­an they kill thee, lord, so shall they kill me also; thy man am I, to live or die with thee—­”