accord, for, plainly visible in
the moonlight, a group of horsemen was gathered and there was borne to
their ears the sturdy voice of Sir Isaac.

"Hallo!" he cried. "There be riders in New Fish Street. See where they
lurk in the shadow! What ho, there! Give a name! Stand forth there!"

Sir Guy drew his sword.

"'Tis time for steel to answer!" he laughed.

"Nay--nay! Wait--wait!" said Phoebe, earnestly. "There must be other
issue than in blood!"

Two or three horsemen now detached themselves from the group near the
bridge and cantered up New Fish Street. Sir Isaac was among them.

"Are ye there, traitor?" he cried. "Where is my daughter?"

Sir Guy was about to reply when Phoebe put her hand on his arm.

"Hush!" she whispered. "Hearken!"

Faint at first, but growing momentarily louder, there came the clear
trilling of a mysterious bell. It floated out from the dark by-ways
whence they had themselves just emerged, and something eerie and uncanny
in its clamor brought a thrill of terror to the young knight's nerves
for the first time.

"Now, what in God's name--" he began.

But he broke off in horror, for there flashed past him, as silent as
the wind and swifter, a dark, bent figure, with flying cloak, under
which, as the moonlight struck him, there whirled a web of glittering
tissue whereon he seemed to ride. That uncanny tinkling floated back
from this strange vision, confirming to the ear what otherwise might
have appeared a mere trick of the vision.

As for Sir Isaac and his band, the distant bell had early
brought them to a wondering stand; and now, as this rushing
phantom--trilling--trilling--trilling--swept down on a living moonbeam,
with one accord they put spurs to their steeds, and with cries of horror
fled in all directions.

"Forward!" cried Phoebe, exultantly. "Why, what now!" she exclaimed,
as she saw her lover still sitting petrified with fear. "How now,
my knight! Why sit you here amazed? Is not the way clear?
Come--follow--follow!" and she started forward on a trot.

But her lover did not move, and she was obliged to turn back. Laying her
hand on his arm:

"Why, what ails thee, dear heart?" she asked.

"The spectre--the ghostly steed!" he stammered.

"Oh--oh!" laughed Phoebe. "Why, this was but some venturous bicyclist
on his wheel!"

"A bicyclist!" exclaimed Sir Guy. "Can you thus give a name to this
black phantom, Mary?"

"'Tis naught, dear Guy, believe me!" she said. Then, in pl