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angrily; "you have smeared blood on your face, and there is a bit of soap in your cheeks."

      So they left, and heard his shrill curse, when he saw Richard tossed forth never a denier.

      "No good omens," muttered Herbert, in his beard.

      "Ride faster," commanded Richard, touching spur to Rollo.

      So they hastened, while above them the canopy of leaves grew denser, and more clouds piled across the dimming sun. Then as they swung round a turn, they came upon a man with a great load of fagots on his back,—a tall, coarse-faced fellow, with a shock head and unkempt beard, hatless, dressed in a dirt-dyed blouse held by a leathern belt, woollen trousers, and high, rude boots.

      Herbert rode up to him, as he stood staring with dazed, lack-lustre eyes at the company.

      "Ho, sirrah; and are we on the Baron of St. Julien's land?" No answer; then again, "Are we on the Baron of St. Julien's land?" Still no answer, while the scoundrel gazed about like a cornered cat, looking for chance to escape. Herbert grasped his ear in no gentle pinch.

      "I work miracles," bellowed he. "I make the dumb speak!" Then as he twisted the ear, the man howled out:—

      "Yes, this is his land."

      "And why not all this before?" roared Herbert.

      "I love my lord," growled the fellow; "how do I know but that you seek his ill? Sorrow enough he has, without need of more."

      "Ha!" exclaimed Richard, "what is this? Speak out, my man. I am his friend and yours!"

      But before he could get answer, the pound, pound, of several horsemen was heard ahead. And they saw in the road four riders, two accoutred men-at-arms, two others, by their dress and steeds evidently gentlemen of the lesser sort. One of these, a tall young man of about Richard's age, spurred ahead; and as he drew near, he dropped his lance-head in salute.

      "Noble lord," said he, "do I speak with Richard Longsword of Cefalu, grandson of the Baron of St. Julien?"

      "I am he, fair sir," replied Richard, with like salute.

      "I am rejoiced to see your safety. Your messengers have arrived. We expected your coming. Know that I am Bertrand, squire of the Baron, your grandfather; and this is his good vassal the castellan, Sir Oliver de Carnac; in our Lord's name we greet you well and all your company."

      So Richard thanked them for their courtesy, and then questioned:—

      "And is my lord the Baron well?"

      But at his words a great cloud lowered on the face of the squire, and he turned to De Carnac; and that stern-faced knight began to look very blank, though saying nothing. Then Bertrand began hesitatingly:—

      "It grieves me, fair lord; but the Baron is very ill just now; the skill of the monks of St. Julien does nothing for him."

      "Ha!" exclaimed the Norman. "I give him joy; I have here a famous Spanish knight, who, besides being a mighty cavalier, knows all the wisdom of the paynim schools, which, if very bad for the soul, is sovereign for the body."

      "No skill avails, lord," said Bertrand, looking down. "He is blind."

      "Blind!" came from Longsword. "When? how? he did not write."

      "No, fair sir; three days since it happed; and I have a sorry tale to tell."

      "Briefly then." Musa saw the Norman's face very calm and grave, and he shuddered, knowing a mighty storm was gathering.

      "Lord," said Bertrand, "over yonder mountain lies the castle of Valmont: its seigneur, Raoul, has for years been at feud with your grandfather, my lord. Much blood has flowed to neither's advantage. When Louis went away, the two barons made a manner of peace; but of late they quarrelled, touching the rights to certain hunting-land. The suzerain, Count Robert of Auvergne, is old; he gave judgment against Raoul, but had no power to enforce. Four days since Baron Gaston went upon the debatable land to lay a hound; with him only Gaspar, the huntsman. Raoul and many men meet them; high words, drawn swords; and after our Baron had slain three men with his own hands, the 'Bull of Valmont' takes him. Raoul is in a black rage, and his enemy in his power."

      Richard's face was black also, but he was not raging.

      "Go on," said he, very calmly.

      "Raoul says to my lord, 'It is a grievous thing to take the life of a cavalier, who cannot defend himself. I will not do it, yet you shall never see that pleasant hunting-land more.' Then he calls John of the Iron Arm, a man-at-arms and chief devil at Valmont, who is after his own heart, and bids him bring the 'hot-bowl.'"

      "The 'hot-bowl'?"

      "Yes, lord; a red-hot brazier, which they passed before our Baron's eyeballs, until the sight was scorched out forever."

      Richard was turning very pale. "Mother of God!" muttered he, crossing himself; but Bertrand went on:—

      "Then Raoul struck off Gaspar's right hand, and bade him lead his seigneur home with the other, and let them remember there was brave hunting on the Valmont lands."

      "And what has been done against Raoul?" asked Richard.

      "Nothing, lord. De Carnac is our chief; but when we knew you were coming, and heard how you had laid the Bull's brother, Louis de Valmont, on his back, great knight that he was, we waited; for, we said, 'When Sir Richard comes, we shall be led by one of St. Julien's own stock, and we shall see if he loves Raoul more than do we.'"

      "You have done well, dear friend," said Richard, still very quietly. "Now tell me, how is my grandfather; well, save for his eyes?"

      "Alas! he was nigh dead when he came back, and to-day the monks declared he would slip away; only desire for revenge keeps his soul in him."

      "I must see him," said Longsword, simply; then to Musa, "Ha! my brother, will you be at my side in this adventure?"

      "Allah akhbar," cried the Spaniard, his eyes on fire, "that Raoul shall feel my cimeter!"

      "Softly, softly, dear son," quoth Sebastian, who had heard all, "Omnia licent, sed omnia non expediunt!"

      "No Latin now, good father," was the Norman's prompt retort, and he turned to Bertrand: "To the castle with speed!"

      Forward they rode through the squalid little village, where ragged peasants and slatternly women opened their eyes wide, and crossed themselves as their eyes lit on the "Saracen devils"; then they clattered onto the stone bridge, and past the toll-keeper's booth at the drawbridge in the middle span. Before them across a stretch of cleared land rose the castle: not a curiously planned system of outworks, barbicans, baileys, and keeps, as Richard saw in his older days, but a single massive tower, square, built from ponderous blocks of black basalt that could mock at battering-ram. It perched upon a rocky rising, at the foot a moat, deep, flooded by the stream, where even now the fish were leaping; outside the moat, a high wooden stockade; within this, the stables. From the crest far above, the eye could sweep to the farthest glens of the valley. Ten men could make good the hold against an army; for where was the hero that could mount to the only entrance—that door in the sheer wall thirty feet above the moat, and only a wooden drawbridge to reach it, which pulleys could lift in a twinkling?

      Richard looked at the castle and shrugged his shoulders. "Is the hold of Raoul de Valmont like to this?" he asked.

      "As you say, lord; only the outer wall is higher," replied Bertrand, while they left their steeds at the foot of the dizzy bridge. Richard blew through his teeth. "St. Michael," cried he, "there will be a tale to tell ere we get inside!"

      When they came within the great hall, dark and sombre, with slits for the archers its only windows, there were all the castle servants waiting to do Richard honor, from the gray old chamberlain and the consequential cellarer to the "sergeants" that kept the guard. But Longsword would have none of their scrapes and bows.

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