“It is the signal.  All is lost!  The rebels have won, and we must fly for our lives.”

“They may be merciful.”

“Nay, we have too black a name in the Andredsweald.  We should have to answer for every peasant we have hanged or hen roost we have robbed.”

“That would never do.  By ’r lady, what injustice!  Would they be so bad as that?”

“We will not wait to see.”

All at once loud outcries arose from the castle below.  They looked aghast, for it was the sound of fierce strife and dread dismay.  What could it be?

They started to run to the help of their comrades, when a thousand cries, a wild war whoop, burst from the arches of the forest and in the dim twilight they saw numberless forms gliding over the short space which separated the castle from the wood.

“The merrie men!”

“The outlaws!”

“The wild men of the woods!”

The discomfited troopers paused—­turned tail—­fled—­leaving their comrades to their fate, whatever it might be.

Let us see.

The waggon aforesaid had approached the gateway in the most innocent manner.  It creaked over the drawbridge.  It was already beneath the portcullis, when the driver cut the traces and thrust a long pole amidst the spokes of the wheel.  At the same instant a score of men leapt out, who had been concealed beneath the loose hay.

All was alarm and confusion.  The few defenders of the castle were overpowered and slain, for the gross treachery practised upon the “merrie men” a few days earlier had hardened their hearts and rendered them deaf to the call for pity or mercy.  The few women who were in the castle fled shrieking to their hiding places.  The men died fighting.

“To the dungeons!  Show us the way to the dungeons, and we give you your life,” cried their leader—­Kynewulf—­to an individual whose bunch of keys attached to his girdle showed his office.

“The friar is safe below, unhurt.  I will take you to him.  But I have no key.”

“Where is it, then?”

“Sir Drogo has taken it with him.”

“We will have it open.

“Friar Martin, art thou within?”

“Safe and uninjured.  Is it thou, Kynewulf?  Then I charge thee that thou do no hurt to any here.  They have not injured me.”

“Not injured thee, to place thee here!  Well, we will soon have thee out.  We have promised Grimbeard to bring thee to him, or forfeit our lives.  He is dying.”

“Dying!  And I not there!  What has chanced?”

“He was hit by one of those arrows the treacherous Drogo shot from the wall while the flag of truce was yet flying, when we first came to demand thee.  But we must work to relieve thee.”

And toil they did, but all in vain.  They had no tools to force that iron door.

Meanwhile a sound of scuffling drew other members of the band to a chamber in the tower, where the good knight Ralph de Monceux was confined, and as they approached they heard a heavy fall and found Marboeuf lying dead on the floor, his skull cleft asunder, whilst over him stood Ralph, axe in hand.