But one there was who noticed, and who did not jest.  They were increasingly uneasy looks that the lord of the castle from time to time threw towards the minstrel.  What, he pondered unquietly, caused this amazing change in the appearance of one who so lately had seemed to be almost on the verge of the grave?  Was he in truth the frail old man he had pretended to be, or had he overacted his part, and was he no minstrel, but an enemy in disguise?  The lord’s looks grew blacker and more black, and ever more uneasy as the evening proceeded; and the more he suspected, the more he drank to drown the disquiet of his mind.  At length his unease became so marked that unavoidably it communicated itself to the rest of the company.  Even the rough men-at-arms desisted from their boisterous jests, and spoke beneath their breath.  The harper glancing around as the silence grew, and finding the lord’s black looks ever upon him, trailed off at last in his song and sat mute, with uncertain fingers plucking at the strings of his instrument.  The company broke up, glad to escape from the gloom of their lord’s glances, and somebody showed the old man to a rude chamber, where a bundle of pease straw was to serve him for bed.

But the lord of Bellister sat on, “glooming” morbidly to himself.  Bitter feud existed between him and a neighbouring baron.  Had he not cause to distrust that baron, and to believe that means neither fair nor honourable might be employed by his enemy to wipe out the feud?  What if this self-styled harper should turn out to be no minstrel after all, but a hired assassin, a follower of that base churl, his hated foe!  To suspect was to believe.  In his excited, drink-clouded brain wrath sprang up, fully armed.  He would speedily put an end to that treacherous scheme; his enemies should learn that if one can plot, another may have cunning to bring to naught such treachery.  And little mercy should be shown to the base tool of a baser employer.

“Bring hither quickly to me that minstrel,” he called.  “And it will be the better for some of you that there be no delay,” he muttered beneath his breath, with a threatening blow of his fist on the table.

Of old his servants and dependants had learned the lesson that it was well not to linger over the carrying out of their passionate lord’s orders.  But in this instance, speed was of no avail; they were obliged to return, to report to a wrathful master that the bird had flown; the place was empty, the old man gone.  Threatening glances and black looks had scared him; without waiting for rest, he had fled while yet there was time, less afraid of exposure to a wild and stormy night than to find himself in the clutches of a petty tyrant.

That the man had fled was to Blenkinsopp quite convincing proof that his suspicions were justified.  Immediate pursuit was ordered.  “Lay the sleuth hounds on his trail without an instant’s delay.  Let them deal with him!”