“Wind up,” shouted Christopher, and all there, even the womenfolk, laid hands upon the cranks.  The bridge began to rise, but now five or six of the Abbot’s folk, dismounting, sprang at it, catching the end of it with their hands when it was about six feet in the air, and holding on so that it could not be lifted, but remained, moving neither up nor down.

“Leave go, you knaves,” shouted Christopher; but by way of answer one of them, with the help of his fellows, scrambled on to the end of the bridge, and stood there, hanging to the chains.

Then Christopher snatched a bow from the hand of a serving-man, and the arrow being already on the string, again shouted—­

“Get off at your peril!”

In answer the man called out something about the commands of the Lord Abbot.

Christopher, looking past him, saw that others of the company had dismounted and were running towards the bridge.  If they reached it he knew well that the game was played.  So he hesitated no longer, but, aiming swiftly, drew and loosed the bow.  At that distance he could not miss.  The arrow struck the man where his steel cap joined the mail beneath, and pierced him through the throat, so that he fell back dead.  The others, scared by his fate, loosed their hold, so that now the bridge, relieved of the weight upon it, instantly rose up beyond their reach, and presently came home and was made fast.

As they afterwards discovered, this man, it may here be said, was a captain of the Abbot’s guard.  Moreover, it was he who had shot the arrow that killed Sir John Foterell some forty hours before, striking him through the throat, as it was fated that he himself should be struck.  Thus, then, one of that good knight’s murderers reaped his just reward.

Now the men ran back out of range, for they feared more arrows, while Christopher watched them go in silence.  Cicely, who stood by his side, her hands held before her face to shut out the sight of death, let them fall suddenly, and, turning to her husband, said, as she pointed to the corpse that lay upon the blood-stained snow of the roadway—­

“How many more will follow him, I wonder?  I think that is but the first throw of a long game, husband.”

“Nay, sweet,” he answered, “the second; the first was cast two nights gone by King’s Grave Mount in the forest yonder, and blood ever calls for blood.”

“Aye,” she answered, “blood calls for blood.”  Then, remembering that she was orphaned and what sort of a honeymoon hers was like to be, she turned and sought her chamber, weeping.

Now, while Christopher still stood irresolute, for he was oppressed by the sense of this man-slaying, and knew not what he should do next, he saw three men separate from the knot of soldiers and ride towards the Towers, one of whom held a white cloth above his head in token of parley.  Then Christopher went up into the little gateway turret, followed by Emlyn, who crouched down behind the brick battlement, so that she could see and hear without being seen.  Having reached the further side of the moat, he who held the white cloth threw back the hood of his long cape, and they saw that it was the Abbot of Blossholme himself, also that his dark eyes flashed and that his olive-hued face was almost white with rage.