ws not what he does. Presently his
eyes brightened and he said:

"What does this mean, I wonder. Hearken."

"Rogue, you have cheated me as you cheat all men and now I follow her
who has gone. Be sure, however, that you shall reap your reward in due
season, de Noyon."

"I know not," said Dick, "and the interpreter is silent," and he kicked
the body of Basil. "Perhaps I was a little over hasty who might have
squeezed the truth out of him before the end."

"'Her who is gone,'" reflected Hugh aloud. "'Tis Red Eve who is gone and
de Noyon is scarcely the man to seek her among passed souls. Moreover,
the Jews swear that he rode from Avignon two days ago. Come, Dick, let
that carrion lie, and to the plague pit."

An hour later and they stood on the edge of that dreadful place, hearing
and seeing things which are best left untold. A priest came up to them,
one of those good men who, caring nothing for themselves, still dared to
celebrate the last rites of the Church above the poor departed.

"Friends," he said, "you seem to be in trouble. Can I help you, for
Jesus' sake?"

"Perchance, holy Father," answered Hugh. "Tell us, you who watch this
dreadful place, was a woman wrapped in a red cloak thrown in here two or
three days gone?"

"Alas, yes," said the priest with a sigh, "for I read the Office over
her and others. Nay, what are you about to do? By now she is two fathoms
deep and burned away with lime so that none could know her. If you
enter there the guards will not let you thence living. Moreover, it is
useless. Pray to God to comfort you, poor man, as I will, who am sure it
will not be denied."

Then Dick led, or rather carried, Hugh from the brink of that awesome,
common grave.

CHAPTER XIX

THE DOOM

It was the last night of February, the bitterest night perhaps of all
that sad winter, when at length Hugh de Cressi, Grey Dick, and David
Day rode into the town of Dunwich. Only that morning they had landed at
Yarmouth after a long, long journey whereof the perils and the horrors
may be guessed but need not be written. France, through which they had
passed, seemed to be but one vast grave over which the wail of those who
still survived went up without cease to the cold, unpitying heavens.

Here in England the tale was still the same. Thus in the great seaport
of Yarmouth scarcely enough people were left alive to inter the
unshriven dead, nor of these would any stay to speak with them, fearing
lest