De Lacy put his hand on the casement to follow when Dauvrey seized him from behind.

“To the front, men, and after him!” he shouted through the window. . .  “Your pardon, my dear lord,” he said with deep respect, “but you could ill afford to take such risk now.  Hark, sir, they are already in pursuit.”

Sir Aymer nodded.  “You are right, Giles.  It would have gained naught but perchance a broken bone.  He has escaped this time—­on such a night an army would be lost. . .  But who, in the Fiend’s name, is the fellow we have below?”

Seizing the burning candle from the table, they hurried out, and bending over De Lacy flashed the light across the prisoner’s face—­and started back in vast amaze.

“Holy St. Denis!  Lord Darby!”

For a space he stood looking down upon him; then motioning toward the house he went within, and behind him Dauvrey and the guard bore the captive—­and none too easy were their hands.

In the front room De Lacy put down the candle.

“Release him,” he ordered. . .  “So, sir, you search for the Countess of Clare in company with her abductor.  Truly, it is wondrous strange you have not found her.  Tell me, my lord, might it be that though we missed the servant we got the master?”

“What I can tell you, my French upstart,” Darby retorted, “is that this night’s work will bring you heavy punishment.”

“Forsooth!  From whom?”

“From me perchance; from the King surely.”

De Lacy laughed disdainfully.  “You always were a braggart, I have heard; yet you will need all your wits to save your own head when arraigned before him.”

“Arraigned!  Save my head!  These are queer expressions for such as you to use to a Peer of England.”

“No more queer than for a Peer of England to be an abductor of women.”

“You are still pleased to speak in riddles,” Darby answered with a shrug.

“Pardieu! it will be a riddle for which you have a shrewd answer ready for His Majesty.”

“Methinks you have lost what little sense ever had and are not responsible,” said Darby; “therefore I have the pleasure of wishing you a very good night,” and he turned toward the door.

De Lacy laughed scornfully.

“Not so fast, my lord,” he said.  “You will have to bear with my poor company for a space.  The King is at Lincoln.”

“What has that to do with me? . . .  Stand aside, fellow,” as Dauvrey barred the way.

For answer the squire drew dagger and the man-at-arms laid a heavy hand on Darby’s shoulder.  It was useless to try bare fists against such odds and he wheeled about.

“What means this fresh outrage?” he demanded.

“It means that you are my prisoner.”

“Your prisoner!  And wherefore?”

“As the abductor of the Countess of Clare.”

Darby held up his hands in amazement.  “Are you clean daft?” he exclaimed.