ified the clothes as
having belonged to the foreign prince."

"Aye, the clothes, de Chavasse," murmured the squire meditatively, "the
clothes, but not the man ... and 'twas you yourself who just now...."

"Master Lambert should know his own brother," here came in a suppressed
murmur from one or two of the men, who respectful before the quality,
had now become too excited to keep altogether silent.

"Of course I know my brother," retorted Richard Lambert boldly, "and can
but curse mine own cowardice in not defending him ere this."

"What more lies are we to hear?" sneered de Chavasse, "surely,
Boatfield, this stupid scene hath lasted long enough."

"Put my knowledge to the test, sir," rejoined Lambert. "My brother's arm
was scarred by a deep cut from shoulder to elbow, caused by the fall of
a sharp-bladed ax--'twas the right arm ... will you see, Sir Marmaduke,
or will you allow me to lay bare the right arm of this man ... to see if
I had lied? ..."

Squire Boatfield, conquering his reluctance, had approached nearer to
the coffin; he, too, lifted the dead man's arm, as the old woman had
done just now, and he gazed down meditatively at the hand, which though
shapely, was obviously rough and toil-worn. Then, with a firm and
deliberate gesture, he undid the sleeve of the doublet and pushed it
back, baring the arm up to the shoulder.

He looked at the lifeless flesh for a moment, there where a deep and
long scar stood out plainly between the elbow and shoulder like the
veining in a block of marble. Then he pulled the sleeve down again.

"Neither you, nor Mistress Lambert have lied, master," he said simply.
"'Tis Adam Lambert who lies here ... murdered ... and if that be so," he
continued firmly, "then the man who put these clothes upon the body of
the smith is his murderer ... the foreigner who called himself Prince
Amede d'Orleans."

"The husband of Lady Sue Aldmarshe," quoth Sir Marmaduke, breaking into
a loud laugh.

The rain had momentarily ceased, although the gale, promising further
havoc, still continued that mournful swaying of the dead branches of the
trees. But a gentle drip-drip had replaced that incessant patter. The
humid atmosphere had long ago penetrated through rough shirts and
worsted breeches, causing the spectators of this weird tragedy to shiver
with the cold.

The shades of evening had begun to gather in. It were useless now to
attempt to reach Minster before nightfall: nor presumably would