“Godwin,” he called presently, “come here.  The man has gone!”

“Gone?” said Godwin as he ran to the curtain.  “Gone where?”

“Back to his friend Saladin, I think,” answered Wulf.  “Look, that is how he went.”  And he pointed to the shutter of the sleeping-place, that stood wide open, and to an oaken stool beneath, by means of which the sainted Nicholas had climbed up to and through the narrow window slit.

“He must be without, grooming the mule which he would never have left,” said Godwin.

“Honest guests do not part from their hosts thus,” answered Wulf; “but let us go and see.”

So they ran to the stable and found it locked and the mule safe enough within.  Nor—­though they looked—­could they find any trace of the palmer—­not even a footstep, since the ground was frostbound.  Only on examining the door of the stable they discovered that an attempt had been made to lift the lock with some sharp instrument.

“It seems that he was determined to be gone, either with or without the beast,” said Wulf.  “Well, perhaps we can catch him yet,” and he called to the men to saddle up and ride with him to search the country.

For three hours they hunted far and wide, but nothing did they see of Nicholas.

“The knave has slipped away like a night hawk, and left as little trace,” reported Wulf.  “Now, my uncle, what does this mean?”

“I do not know, save that it is of a piece with the rest, and that I like it little,” answered the old knight anxiously.  “Here the value of the beast was of no account, that is plain.  What the man held of account was that he should be gone in such a fashion that none could follow him or know whither he went.  The net is about us, my nephews, and I think that Saladin draws its string.”

Still less pleased would Sir Andrew have been, could he have seen the palmer Nicholas creeping round the hall while all men slept, ere he girded up his long gown and ran like a hare for London.  Yet he had done this by the light of the bright stars, taking note of every window slit in it, more especially of those of the solar; of the plan of the outbuildings also, and of the path that ran to Steeple Creek some five hundred yards away.

From that day forward fear settled on the place—­fear of some blow that none were able to foresee, and against which they could not guard.  Sir Andrew even talked of leaving Steeple and of taking up his abode in London, where he thought that they might be safer, but such foul weather set in that it was impossible to travel the roads, and still less to sail the sea.  So it was arranged that if they moved at all—­and there were many things against it, not the least of which were Sir Andrew’s weak health and the lack of a house to go to—­it should not be till after New Year’s Day.