The hut was but a rude affair, somewhat loosely put together.  The beam to which Tom’s arms had been bound was not too strongly jointed to its fellow.

A sudden madness seemed to come upon this man of thews and sinews.  He gave a sudden bound and wrench; he felt the beam give, and redoubled his efforts; the next moment the whole rafter came bodily down upon their heads.  Tom ducked, and escaped its fall; but it pinned one of his foes to the ground, and his own hands were immediately free.

With a bound like that of a tiger, and a roar like that of a wounded lion, he sprang, or rather flew, at Montacute, flung him over backwards upon the floor, and pinned him by the throat, uttering all the while a savage sort of growling sound, like a wild beast in its fury.

The light was thrown over in this strange melee; the room was plunged in darkness.  The two men upon the floor lay struggling together in a terrible silence, only broken by Tom’s fierce snarlings, that seemed scarce human.  So terrified were the remaining two men, that they could do nothing for the assistance of their master; indeed, they hardly knew what was happening to him.  They set up a shouting for aid, half afraid to stir lest the whole house should come falling about their ears.

There were steps in the room below.  Footsteps mounted the stairs.  The door was thrown open, a shaft of light streamed in, and a calm, full voice demanded in the French tongue: 

“What, in the name of all the saints, is this?”

“Holy father, he is murdering our master!” suddenly cried one of the men, recovering from his stupor of terror, and seeing now how Tom’s great hands were gripping the throat of Sir James.

Montacute’s face was purple.  His eyes seemed to be starting from their sockets.  It was hard to say which was the more terrible face, his or that of Tom, which was perfectly white, and set in lines of ferocity and hatred as though petrified into stone.

In the doorway stood the figure of a tall monk, clad in the long white robe and black cloak of his order.  Behind him was another, similarly attired, holding the light above his head.

The first stepped quietly forward, and laid a hand upon Tom’s shoulder; and something in the touch made the young man turn his head to meet the calm, authoritative glance bent upon him.

“Enough, my son, enough,” he said, in quiet tones, that brooked, however, no contradiction.  “Let the man go.”

Had the followers of Montacute sought to loose his clasp by force, Tom would have crushed the life from his victim without a qualm; but at this gentle word of command he instantly loosed his hold, and stood upright before the monk.

“He drove me to it—­his blood be upon his own head!  He would have scourged me to death, I verily believe, had it not been that the rafter gave way.”

Tom spoke English, for he had been addressed in that language, and so knew that he should be understood.  The monk bent his head, as though he grasped the entire situation.