s he drew his belt in
another notch.

When the beginning of the Wine Month came, the bitterest sight that the
Tower windows gave out upon was the band of foragers that every morning
went forth from the Danish camp-fires. Every noon they returned, amid a
taunting racket, with armfuls of ale-skins, back-loads of salted meats,
and bags bulging with the bread which they had forced the terrorized
farm-women into baking for them. "They have the ingenuity of fiends!"
Father Ingulph was wont to groan after each of these spectacles.

At last the time arrived when it looked as though these visions were to
be the only glimpses of food vouchsafed to them.

"Bread for one more meal; and the last ale-cask has been broached,"
the steward answered in a very faint voice when Morcard put the nightly
question.

Because it was not possible for the old man's face to record more
misery, the light of the guard-room fire over which he crouched showed
no change whatever in his expression.

It was the young lord, who sat beside him, that answered. After a pause
he said gently, "Go and try to get some sleep. At least you can dream of
food."

"I have done no otherwise for a sennight," the man sighed as he hurried
away to snatch the tongs from a serf who was spending an unnecessary
fagot upon the fire. At any other time he would have shouted at him, but
it was little loud talking that was done within the walls these days.

When they were left alone, the old cniht threw himself back upon
the bench and covered his face with his mantle. "I have outlived my
usefulness," he moaned. "I have lived to bring ruin on the house that
has sheltered me. What guilt I lie under!" For a time he lay as stark
and rigid under his cloak as though death had already closed about
him. The guard-room seemed to become a funeral chamber, with a mass
of hovering shadows for a pall. The fire held up funeral tapers of
flickering flame, and the whispers of the starving men who warmed
themselves in its heat broke the silence as dismally as the voices of
mourners.

But the Lord of Ivarsdale said steadily, "Not so, good friend; and it
hurts my pride sorely that you should speak as if I were still of no
importance in my father's house. That which I call myself lord of, it
behooved me to rule over. If ever I get out of this--" checking himself,
he rose to his feet. "The smoke makes my wits heavy. Methinks I will go
up into the air a while."

He took a step toward the door