living thing in pain. And then, in a little lull
following on the sobbing cry, there came a curious straining push that
shook the closed oak door.

They stood transfixed, for a moment daunted, with their swords half in
and half out their scabbards, till with a warning gesture to his
cousins, Black Tad stole softly across the floor and, lifting the heavy
bar cautiously, opened the door.

He paused an instant on the lintel, motionless and rigid to the point of
his sword, his eyes fixed on the white face of a girl who was cowered
back against the further wall. For a fraction of time he hesitated, but
the awful anguish of the face and the mute, desperate appeal of the
whole pose settled him. With a rough clatter he sprang into the dim
passage, rattling his sword and stamping his feet, at the same time
giving vent with his lips to the yelp of a hound in pain, and following
it with rough curses and vituperation. Then, without another glance at
the girl, he re-entered the hall and slammed to the door, grumbling at
Rhys for not keeping his dogs tied up.

By one o'clock the great hall was still. The men were lying scattered
about the house, for the most part sleeping as heavily as many jorums of
rum made possible.

But the firelight flickering in the hall caught ever an answering gleam
from the old Wolf's eyes as he lay there gray, shaggy, and watchful.
From time to time his bony fingers plucked restlessly at his beard, and
now and again his lips stretched back over yellow teeth in an evil smile
as he gloated over the details of his coming vengeance.

And out in a chill upper hall Gwenith, the fair daughter of a black
house, sat in a deep embrasure, her arms clinging to the heavy oak bars
desperately. The wind moaned and sighed about her while her white
terrified lips echoed the agony of her heart. And the burden of her
whispered cry was ever, "Davy!--Davy!" and then: "For the Christ's sake!
Davy!--Davy!--Davy!"

So the night drew on with the men and dogs sleeping torpidly; with the
old Wolf chuckling grimly as the shadows closed about him, and with the
child in the cold above sobbing out pitiful prayers for her lover, for
only yesterday she had plighted her troth to Davy Gethin, the
Cadwallader's youngest son.

These two had met in the early days when she wandered free over the
rolling hills, a wild young kilted sprite, fearful of nothing save her
father and his grim sons. And Davy had wooed her ardently, though in
sec