The Doomsman | Page 9

some distant point and were
even now in ambush about the keep. But Constans, for all his keenness
of vision and the assistance of his glass, could discover nothing to
indicate the presence of any considerable body of men. There was no
one in actual sight save he who sat upon his blood-bay steed, girth deep
in the Ochre brook under shadow of the alders. Only one, but that one!
Constans found himself in the court-yard; how he scarcely knew. The
water gate still stood open with the drawbridge lowered, but both could
be easily secured within a few seconds should the enemy venture upon
any open demonstration. Sir Gavan stood in the covered way talking
anxiously with his eldest son Tennant, who had just returned from an
unsuccessful search of the upper orchard.

Constans, in his confusion of mind, did not notice his father and brother;
he ran across the court-yard to the horse-boxes. His black mare Night
whickered upon recognizing her master, and tried to rub her muzzle
against his cheek as he fumbled with the throat-latch of the bridle. An
instant longer, to lead out the mare and vault upon her back, and he was
clattering through the court-yard and covered way.
Upon reaching the open Constans saw that the situation had developed
into a crisis. The cavalier of the ostrich-feather had forced his horse up
the steep bank of the Ochre brook and was riding slowly towards the
girl, who stood motionless, realizing her perilous position, but unable
for the moment to cope with it. She half turned, as though to seek again
the shelter of the birchen copse; then, clutching at her impeding skirts,
she ran in the direction of the keep. He of the ostrich-plume spurred to
the gallop; inevitably their paths must intersect a few yards farther on.
From behind came the noise of men shouting and the thud of quarrels
impinging upon stout oak; the Doomsmen, hitherto in hiding, were
making a diversion, in answer, doubtless, to a signal from their leader.
A hundred gray-garbed men showed themselves in the open, coming
from the shelter of the fir plantation back of the rickyards; they ran
towards the open water gate, exposing themselves recklessly in their
eagerness to reach it.
But the defenders were not to be surprised so easily, and Constans,
glancing backward, saw that the drawbridge was already in the air and
the gate closed. The outlaws, realizing that the surprise was a failure,
and unwilling to brave the arrows sent whistling about their ears from
the fighting platforms of the keep, fell back in some disorder. At the
same moment a solitary figure appeared, emerging as though by magic
from the solid wall of the keep--Sir Gavan himself, a father forgetful of
all else but the peril of his children. He must have used the "Rat's-Hole"
for egress; he hurried down the green slope, calling his daughter by
name. All this Constans saw in that swift backward glance. Well, there
was but one thing that he could do.
And Night knew it, too; brave little Night, how cleverly you forced
yourself under the towering bulk of that brute of a blood-bay! A

thunder of hoofs and they were in touch; Constans felt himself hurled
into space; the bridle-reins of tough plaited leather were torn from his
hands; Night and he were down.
The dust cloud cleared and the boy struggled up, although his head was
still spinning from the shock of the encounter. Ten yards away lay the
black mare with a broken foreleg. She was trying to rise, her eyes
glazed with pain and her flanks heaving horribly.
The blood-bay had kept his feet and his master his saddle--a hardy pair,
these two. But the desperate expedient had proved successful in that
Issa was safe. Already Sir Gavan had her in his arms, and before the
horseman had fully found himself the fugitives were under the shadow
of the keep's walls.
The question of his own danger did not immediately concern Constans;
he had no eyes for anything but Night lying there in her agony. His
father had given him the horse when she was a foal of a week old, and
Constans had broken and trained her himself. Well, she had served him
faithfully, and in return he would show her the last mercy. His
knife-sheath hung from his girdle; he drew out the blade and drove it
home just behind the glossy black shoulder. Night shuddered and lay
still. The knife had sunken deep, and Constans had to exert all his
strength to withdraw it. The bare point of a rapier touched him
meaningly on the arm; he stood up and faced his enemy.
The man on horseback laughed softly. "Oho, my young cockerel, it was
but a touch