Three had consented and were gone. But the
others had all of them stood firm, two of them even to their
death.
Such was the tale to which Nigel and his comrades listened whilst
they waited impatiently for the coming of Knolles and his men.
Many an anxious look did they cast down the black tunnel, but no
glimmer of light and no clash of steel came from its depths.
Suddenly, however, a loud and measured sound broke upon their
ears. It was a dull metallic clang, ponderous and slow, growing
louder and ever louder--the tread of an armored man. The poor
wretches round the fire, all unnerved by hunger and suffering,
huddled together with wan, scared faces, their eyes fixed in
terror on the door.
"It is he!" they whispered. "It is the Butcher himself!"
Nigel had darted to the door and listened intently. There were no
footfalls save those of one man. Once sure of that, he softly
turned the key in the lock. At the same instant there came a
bull's bellow from without.
"Ives! Bertrand!" cried the voice. "Can you not hear me coming,
you drunken varlets? You shall cool your own heads in the
water-casks, you lazy rascals! What, not even now! Open, you
dogs. Open, I say!"
He had thrust down the latch, and with a kick he flung the door
wide and rushed inward. For an instant he stood motionless, a
statue of dull yellow metal, his eyes fixed upon the empty casks
and the huddle of naked men.
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