ad.

from time to time as they advanced they saw strange lean figures

scraping and scratching amid the weeds and thistles, who, on

sight of the band of horsemen, threw up their arms and dived in

among the brushwood, as shy and as swift as wild animals. more

than once, however, they came on families by the wayside, who

were too weak from hunger and disease to fly, so that they could

but sit like hares on a tussock, with panting chests and terror

in their eyes. so gaunt were these poor folk, so worn and spent-

-with bent and knotted frames, and sullen, hopeless, mutinous

faces--that it made the young englishman heart-sick to look upon

them. indeed, it seemed as though all hope and light had gone so

far from them that it was not to be brought back; for when sir

nigel threw down a handful of silver among them there came no

softening of their lined faces, but they clutched greedily at the

coins, peering questioningly at him, and champing with their

animal jaws. here and there amid the brushwood the travellers

saw the rude bundle of sticks which served them as a home--more

like a fowl's nest than the dwelling-place of man. yet why

should they build and strive, when the first adventurer who

passed would set torch to their thatch, and when their own feudal

lord would wring from them with blows and curses the last fruits

of their toil? they sat at the lowest depth of human misery, and

hugged a bitter comfort to their souls as they realized that they

could go no lower. yet they had still the human gift of speech,

and would take council among themselves in their brushwood

hovels, glaring with bleared eyes and pointing with thin fingers

at the great widespread chateaux which ate like a cancer into

the life of the country-side. when such men, who are beyond hope

and fear, begin in their dim minds to see the source their woes,

it may be an evil time for those who have wronged them. the weak

man becomes strong when he has nothing, for then only can he feel

the wild, mad thrill of despair. high and strong the chateaux,

lowly and weak the brushwood hut; but god help the seigneur and

his lady when the men of the brushwood set their hands to the

work of revenge!

through such country did the party ride for eight or it might be

nine miles, until the sun began to slope down in the west and

their shadows to stream down the road in front of them. wary and

careful they must be, with watchful eyes to the right and the

left, for this was no man's land, and their only passports were

those which hung from their belts. frenchmen and englishmen,

gascon and provencal, brabanter, tardvenu, scorcher, flayer, and

free companion, wandered and struggled over the whole of this

accursed district. so bare and cheerless was the outlook, and so

few and poor the dwellings, that sir nigel began to have fears as

to whether he might find food and quarters for his little troop.

it was a relief to him, therefore, when their narrow track opened

out upon a larger road, and they saw some little way down it a

square white house with a great bunch of holly hung out at the

end of a stick from one of the upper windows.

"by st. paul!" said he, "i am right glad; for i had feared that

we might have neither provant nor herbergage. ride on, alleyne,

and tell this inn-keeper that an english knight with his party

will lodge with him this night."

alleyne set spurs to his horse and reached the inn door a long

bow-shot before his companions. neither varlet nor ostler could

be seen, so he pushed open the door and called loudly for the

landlord. three times he shouted, but, receiving no reply, he

opened an inner door and advanced into the chief guest-room of

the hostel.

a very cheerful wood-fire was sputtering and cracking in an open

grate at the further end of the apartment. at one side of this

fire, in a high-backed oak chair, sat a lady, her face turned

towards the door. the firelight played over her features, and

alleyne thought that he had never seen such queenly power, such

dignity and strength, upon a woman's face. she might have been

five-and-thirty years of age, with aquiline nose, firm yet

sensitive mouth, dark curving brows, and deep-set eyes which

shone and sparkled with a shifting brilliancy. beautiful as she

was, it was not her beauty which impressed itself upon the

beholder; it was her strength, her power, the sense of wisdom

which hung over the broad white brow, the decision which lay in

the square jaw and delicately moulded chin. a chaplet of pearls

sparkled amid her black hair, with a gauze of silver network

flowing back from it over her shoulders; a black mantle was

swathed round her, and she leaned back in her chair as one who is

fresh from a journey.

in the opposite corner there sat a very burly and broad-

shouldered man, clad in a black jerkin trimmed with sab