All at once a light, the light of a torch, turned the corner.  The tinkling of a small bell was heard.  It was close upon them.  A priest bore the last Sacrament to the dying—­the Viaticum, or Holy Communion, so called when given in the hour of death.

“Down,” cried Ralph, and they all knelt as it passed, for such was the universal habit.  Even vicious sinners thought they atoned for their vice by their ready compliance with the forms of the Church.  Many a man in that day would have thought it a less sin to cut a throat than to omit such an act of devotion.

But Martin recognised the priest.  It was Adam de Maresco in his gray Franciscan robes, and he thought the father recognised him.  He turned crimson with shame at being found in such company.

At last they reached home, and sick at heart he knocked at the door.  It was long before he was admitted, and then not without sharp words of reproof, at which his companions laughed, as they turned and went back to Le Oriole.

Martin bathed his head in water to drive away the racking headache.  Fire seemed coursing through his veins as he lay down on the hard pallet of straw in his little cell.

He was awoke by a hideous purring; there, as he thought, upon his cast-off garments, sat the enemy of mankind:  he had drawn the mark gained at the dice out of the gypsire, and was feasting on it with his eyes, ever and anon licking it with great gusto, and meanwhile purr, purr, purring like a huge cat.

Martin, now awake, dashed from his couch—­no fiend was there—­he tore his gypsire open, took out the coin, opened his casement, and threw it like an accursed thing into the street.  Then he got in bed again and sobbed like a child.

Chapter 10:  Foul And Fair.

The rivalry between Drogo and Hubert became the more intense that both lads were bound to suppress it; and after the return of the latter from Sussex, it found vent in many acts of hostility and spite on the part of the former, who was the older and bigger boy.  Yet he could not bully Hubert to any extent.  The indomitable pluck and courage of the youngster prevented it.  He would not take a blow or an insult without the most desperate resistance in the former case, and the most sarcastic retorts in the latter, and he had both a prompt hand and a cutting tongue.  So Drogo had to swallow his hatred as best he could, but it led to many black dark thoughts, and to a determination to rid himself of his rival should the opportunity ever be afforded, by fair means or foul.

“I mean yet to be Lord of Walderne,” he said to himself again and again.

And first of all he longed to get Hubert expelled from Kenilworth, and to deprive him of the favour and protection of the earl; and one day the devil, who often aids and abets those who seek his help, threw a chance in his way.