“Say a Pater and an Ave, Almeric.  Sign thyself with the Cross.  Now!”

And they went forth.

The night was, as we have said, intensely dark, and they each carried a fat, resinous pine torch, which diffused a lurid light around.  The stones of the courtyard were slimy from long neglect; and the light, drizzly rain which was falling churned the dust and slime into thin mud.  As they drew near the wood pile, Hubert going boldly first, they both fancied a presence—­a presence which caused a sickening dread—­between them and the pile.

“Look, master,” said Almeric, in tones half choked with horror.

Hubert followed the direction of Almeric’s glance, and saw that a footmark impressed itself in the slime before their own advancing tread, just as if some invisible being were walking before them.  So sickening a dread, yet quite an inexplicable one, a dread of the vague unknown, came upon them that, brave men as they were, they could not proceed to the wood pile, and, like Tristam, returned empty handed.

“Where is the wood?” was the general cry.

“Let no one go out for wood tonight,” said Hubert.  “We must break up the forms, the floors, nay, our dining board, to sustain the fire—­for fire we must have.  Now, remember we are warriors of the Cross, pledged to a holy cause, and that no demon can hurt us if we are true to ourselves.  Join me in the holy psalms of the night watch, then spread our cloaks and sleep here.”

They said the well-known compline psalms, familiar then in England from their nightly use.  Then, replenishing the fire at the expense of some rude oaken benches, and barring the door, they all strove to sleep.  A watch seemed needless.  The fear was that they would all be found watching when they should be sleeping.

But yet whether from extreme fatigue or any other cause, they did all fall asleep.

In the dead hour of the night Hubert alone awoke, with the consciousness that someone was gazing upon him.  He looked up.  There was the figure which had so often tormented his poor father, the slain Frenchman, the last Sieur de Fievrault, pale and gory, his hand on the wound in his side.

“Speak, dread phantom!  What dost thou want with me?  I go to do thy bidding, to fulfil thy vow.”

“Thank God!  Thou hast spoken, and I may speak, too.  Thou goest to do my bidding in love for thy father, to fulfil my vow.  Alas, many trials await thee.  Canst thou face them?”

“I can do all man can do.”

“So I imagine from thy bold bearing in this haunted castle of my ancestors.  It is well.  Only go forward, whatever happens.  Thou shalt not perish.  Thou shalt deliver thy father and me, condemned as yet to walk this lower earth, till the vow my own misconduct made me unworthy to fulfil is fulfilled by thee.  Fare thee well, and fear not.”

And the figure disappeared.