"Where doth he ride this night, messire?"

"His men--few--very weary--Sir Pertolepe's--men-at-arms--caught us i' the sunken road--Sir Gilles--to Thornaby Mill--beside the ford--O God --water!"

"'Tis here!" quoth Roger, kneeling beside him; then Beltane set the water to the squire's eager lips, but, striving to drink he choked, and choking, fell back--dead.

So in a while they arose from their knees and went their way, while the dead youth lay with wide eyes that seemed to out-stare the pallid moon.

Now as they went on very silently together, of a sudden Black Roger caught Beltane by the arm and pointed into the gloom, where, far before them, small lights winked redly through the murk.

"Yon should be Sir Gilles' watch-fires!" he whispered.

"Aye," nodded Beltane, "so I think."

"Master--what would ye now?"

"Pray, Roger--I pray God Sir Gilles' men be few, and that they be sound sleepers. Howbeit we will go right warily none the less." So saying, Beltane turned aside from the road and led on through underbrush and thicket, through a gloom of leaves where a boisterous wind rioted; where great branches, dim seen, swayed groaning in every fierce gust, and all was piping stir and tumult. Twigs whipped them viciously, thorns dragged at them, while the wind went by them, moaning, in the dark. But, ever and anon as they stumbled forward, guiding themselves by instinct, the moon sent forth a pale beam from the whirling cloud-wrack --a phantom light that stole upon them, sudden and ghost-like, and, like a ghost, was gone again; what time Black Roger, following hard on Beltane's heel, crossed himself and muttered fragments of forgotten prayers. Thus at last they came to the river, that flowed before them vague in the half-light, whose sullen waters gurgled evilly among the willows that drooped upon the marge.

"Master," said Roger, wiping sweat from his face, "there's evil hereabouts--I've had a warning--a dead man touched me as we came through the brush yonder."

"Nay Roger, 'twas but some branch--"

"Lord, when knew ye a branch with--fingers--slimy and cold--upon my cheek here. 'Twas a warning, master--he dead hand! One of us twain goeth to his death this night!"

"Let not thine heart fail therefor, good Roger: man, being dead, liveth forever--"

"Nay, but--the dead hand, master--on my cheek, here--Ah!--" Crying thus, Black Roger sprang and caught Beltane's arm, gripping it fast, for on the air, borne upon the wind, yet louder than the wind, a shrill sound rang and echoed, the which, passing, seemed to have stricken the night to silence. Then Beltane brake from Roger's clasp, and ran on beside the river, until, beyond the sullen waters the watch-fires flared before him, in whose red light the mill loomed up rugged and grim, its massy walls scarred and cracked, its great wheel fallen to ruin.




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