the weight upon it, instantly rose up beyond their
reach, and presently came home and was made fast.

As they afterwards discovered, this man, it may here be said, was a
captain of the Abbot's guard. Moreover, it was he who had shot the arrow
that killed Sir John Foterell some forty hours before, striking him
through the throat, as it was fated that he himself should be struck.
Thus, then, one of that good knight's murderers reaped his just reward.

Now the men ran back out of range, for they feared more arrows, while
Christopher watched them go in silence. Cicely, who stood by his side,
her hands held before her face to shut out the sight of death, let them
fall suddenly, and, turning to her husband, said, as she pointed to the
corpse that lay upon the blood-stained snow of the roadway--

"How many more will follow him, I wonder? I think that is but the first
throw of a long game, husband."

"Nay, sweet," he answered, "the second; the first was cast two nights
gone by King's Grave Mount in the forest yonder, and blood ever calls
for blood."

"Aye," she answered, "blood calls for blood." Then, remembering that
she was orphaned and what sort of a honeymoon hers was like to be, she
turned and sought her chamber, weeping.

Now, while Christopher still stood irresolute, for he was oppressed by
the sense of this man-slaying, and knew not what he should do next, he
saw three men separate from the knot of soldiers and ride towards
the Towers, one of whom held a white cloth above his head in token
of parley. Then Christopher went up into the little gateway turret,
followed by Emlyn, who crouched down behind the brick battlement, so
that she could see and hear without being seen. Having reached the
further side of the moat, he who held the white cloth threw back the
hood of his long cape, and they saw that it was the Abbot of Blossholme
himself, also that his dark eyes flashed and that his olive-hued face
was almost white with rage.

"Why do you hunt me across my own park and come knocking so rudely at my
doors, my Lord Abbot?" asked Christopher, leaning on the parapet of the
gateway.

"Why do you work murder on my servant, Christopher Harflete?" answered
the Abbot, pointing to the dead man in the snow. "Know you not that
whoso sheds blood, by man shall his blood be shed, and that under our
ancient charters, here I have the right to execute justice on you, as,
by God's holy Name, I swear that I will do?" he added in a