“Nicholas,” said Manners, “thou shalt do naught but stand.  I must see Dorothy.  I shall,” he added determinedly.  “Some way or other I shall see her; even though blood be shed I shall do it,” and in the intensity of his feelings he involuntarily put his hand down to his side to feel for the dagger which was not there.

“I fear thou art too venturesome,” expostulated his friend, quietly.

“I am desperate,” he replied; “and you, Nicholas, by simply standing still might help me as much as I require, and might, perchance, prevent bloodshed, too.”

“Hush, friend John, talk not thus foolishly.”

“And the blood will be upon your head,” continued the distracted lover.  “With or without your aid I must, I shall, see Doll; and that soon.  You know my word is not lightly broken.  Did I not succour thee and save thy life when all conspired against thee?”

“Aye, in truth, and—­”

“And I call upon you now, Nicholas, to discharge that debt,” pursued Manners, hotly.  “You must; I am resolved, I am well nigh desperate; and Father Philip sanctioned the troth, Nicholas, and blessed us ere he died.”

“Is that so?”

“Assuredly it is.  Thou shalt help us, nor shalt thou be dishonoured in the deed.”

“An you will lead me into no evil I will consent, but I fear to trust thee, thou wert ever rash and headstrong.”

Two days later, ere the Sabbath mass began, there stole into the little chapel of Haddon the figure of a man, which ever since the break of day might have been observed crouched down at the bottom of the mighty brewing vat.  Had anyone cared to look under the cloth which covered it they would assuredly have discovered him there.

The door of the sanctuary had just been thrown open, somewhat later than usual, for the servants had evidently overslept themselves, and were now to be heard throwing the shutters open, and bustling about in the kitchens, trying to make up for the time they had lost.

The man, by his garb, might have been taken for a labourer.  His black hair hung in matted patches upon his shoulders; his clothes were torn and patched, and the coarse leather jerkin he wore, which was almost ready to be replaced by a new one, gave unmistakable tokens that the wearer was a man of toil.

In spite of all these signs the face of the man was handsome, and not without traces of hauteur.  His hands were red and rough, but not hard and horny as those of other craftsmen were; and his whole bearing would have impressed a critical observer that this man at least was worthier of a better lot.

Yes, it was John Manners.  He was bearding the lion in his den.

Pushing the inner door ajar, and casting a look around the yard at the same time to satisfy himself that he was not observed, he quietly entered the edifice, and closed the door.

“Ha, ha,” he mused.  “At last we shall meet again,” and at the thought of it he heaved a sigh of relief.