Cedric plucked at my sleeve and drew me aside.

“Thou and Sir Geoffrey come with me a little,” he whispered, “I have somewhat to say on this.”

Quickly I sought out Geoffrey, and led him away into the bracken in which Cedric had already disappeared. A bow-shot away from the camp we came up with him.

“Sir Richard,” he said, speaking far more quickly than was his wont. “I have a thought of the whereabouts of this fastness that the robber speaks of in his letter.”

My heart leaped within me. “Hast thou, Cedric?” I cried. “If any one of all our company should know, it would be thou who art native to these woods and knowest them as the very deer that run them.”

“Aye,” he replied shortly, “I believe ’tis not two miles hence. What say’st thou? Shall we reconnoiter?”

“With all my heart,” I answered.

Geoffrey drew his cross-bow cord and placed a bolt in groove. “Lead on, Cedric,” he said in a low voice. “I will follow thee if ’tis to a lion’s den.”

“Come then,” replied Cedric, and moved away through the underwood.

He took a roundabout course to avoid our own sentries and their questions which might be hampering. In five minutes we had passed the line where a little ravine ran between the posts of two of the archers who stood on guard, and were hurrying through the wood, crouching for shelter behind trees and rocks and crossing the more open spaces in stooping runs lest we encounter the arrows of the outlaws. We saw none of our enemies, however, and in an hour were on a deeply wooded hillside amidst huge rocks and brawling streams, half a league and more from our camp fires.

Now we knew from the added caution of our leader that we approached the spot he suspected as the fortress of the outlaws. He crouched and crawled like a serpent, and fully as silently, turning to us from time to time to lay a finger on his lips. At last he paused at the foot of a huge old oak that yet bore most of its leaves, and motioning us not to follow, quickly drew himself up among the branches.

For half a minute he lay on a great limb six yards above the ground and peered obliquely down the hillside at a point where we could see naught but a little stream that issued from between huge ledges. Then his face lighted up of a sudden, and he looked down to us and beckoned us to join him.

This we managed with no more noise than might well be covered by the rustling of the oak leaves, and soon lay on the limb beside Cedric and, peering out betwixt the branches, beheld that to which his finger pointed.

There was a narrow pathway which led up between the ledges; and, at a bend in this where they were concealed from any in the wood below, stood two tall archers in Lincoln green, with axes in their belts, long bows in hand and arrows ready notched. They neither saw nor heard aught of us, and we might have fired on them with goodly chance of slaying one or both; but Cedric now motioned us down to the ground again and soon joined us beneath the tree.

Without a word he retraced his steps through the forest; and by sundown we stood again amongst the ferns in the place where he had first revealed his thought. Then he spoke again:

“’Tis e’en as I thought. The Monkslayer hath his fastness in a wide cavern at the head of yonder gully. There is no approach save by that winding path you saw where half a dozen men might well stop a thousand. He thinks to guard my Lady Carleton there until her ransom be paid. And whether even then he will let her go unharmed we know not.”

Sir Geoffrey ground his teeth in rage.

“Hast thou any plan?” I asked of Cedric.

“Aye,” he replied, “though ’tis something ticklish; and if it fail, ’twill be an ill chance indeed.”

“Say on, Cedric,” said Geoffrey, eagerly.

“This is my thought,” said Cedric, “we have till to-morrow’s sunrise before any harm shall befall thy lady mother. Now, it would be disastrous to attack the fastness openly; but it may be that with two score of swordsmen, creeping on them just before the dawn, we can take them by surprise. Your archer is all at disadvantage in fighting at arm’s length; and if such a force can reach the cavern’s mouth, I warrant we snatch away the prisoners almost before they are aware. The cave is broad but not deep. I remember it full well. There is no room in it for hiding.”

“But Cedric!” I cried, “how shall we reach the cave’s mouth without alarm? Hast thou forgotten the two sentries in the lower pathway?”

Cedric smiled broadly.

“And hast thou forgotten, Sir Dickon, the oak tree from which we spied them but now? Old Marvin and I together shall care for the sentries.”

I drew a deep breath as I caught the full working of his plan. “Cedric,” I said, “thou wilt never remain a simple squire. Thou hast a head as well as an arm. The King hath need for such in many places of trust.”

“Let us first make this plan succeed,” replied Cedric evenly, though I could see that my words had warmed him to the heart. “Now shall we tell Lord Mountjoy?”

“Aye,” said I, “let us have him from the camp at once. I warrant you he’ll kindle at our news. And he knows which of our swordsmen will carry themselves best in such a venture.”

“And I have twenty men of Carleton here that can be trusted,” put in Geoffrey.

“Right,” said Cedric, “’twill make us amply strong. We must have no blunderers, though, for look you, some of these greenwood men have ears that can hear a twig break at two hundred paces. We must urge Lord Mountjoy to hold all at a safe distance till the signal.”

Two hours after the midnight we set out through the forest for the storming of the robber fastness. Cedric, as pathfinder, was in the lead, followed close by Lord Mountjoy, Sir Geoffrey and me. After us, and treading most cautiously, ’mongst the leaves and brush, came old Marvin, the archer, and thirty chosen swordsmen of Mountjoy with a score or more of Geoffrey’s men.

There was no moon; and the faint stars gave but little light in the forest deeps. Our way lay, as often as not, over steep and rocky slopes where our faces were torn with thorns and our legs bruised against the unseen rocks.

We had made little more than half of our way to the outlaw stronghold when Lord Mountjoy, in coming down a streamlet bank in the darkness, stepped heavily on a stone that rolled beneath his weight, and went to the ground with his right foot twisted under him. He gave a groan of pain, yet in an instant was up again to resume his march. But then ’twas found this could not be. His ankle had been most sorely wrenched, and would not at all endure his weight. He sank down again on a leafy bank, and called us to him. Amidst half stifled groans and grumblings at his ill fortune he declared he could not move from thence without assistance. There was no help for it; he must await our return. Therefore he gave o’er to me the leadership of the venture. We left with him two stout men-at-arms, and went quickly on, for now it seemed the sunrise could not be long in coming.

At the fourth hour of the morning we lay by the streamlet bed, two hundred paces from the robbers’ sentry post in the rocky passage. Cedric and old Marvin had left us to climb the hillside by another route and gain the branches of the great oak tree. Already there was a grayness in the dark that told of the coming dawn. Half an hour passed, and by little and little the trunks of the trees grew more clearly to be seen and we could well make out each other’s faces. Roosting wild fowl roused themselves, and flew away with a clatter of wings. We knew that Cedric and Marvin awaited the daylight to make sure their aim. At last, on the top of a tall tree above me, I spied a beam of sunlight.

Immediately, as it seemed, there came from the oak tree the call of an owl, twice repeated. This was the signal for which we waited; and we sprang up together and ran, as silently as might be, toward the pathway entrance. We gained it unmolested, and with Geoffrey and me in the lead, quickly came upon the bodies of the sentries. Cedric and Marvin, from their post in the tree, had well done their work. The sentinels had perished silently, each with a bolt through his skull.

We rushed forward; and now some of our arms rang against the stones; and there was a cry from above us. This was no time for stealth and creeping. On we went with a rush and with a clatter of heels on the rocks of the path and of steel against steel as we jostled one another in the race.

In a moment we were at the cavern’s mouth; and found a score of the robbers on their feet to meet us. Arrows whizzed among us and one or two men fell, mortally hurt. Geoffrey let fly his bolt at a tall villain that stood in his path, and shot him fair between the eyes. Then I saw no more for I was face to face with the outlaw chief, and our swords flashed fire.

He still wore his steel breastplate, which I believe he had not laid aside that night; and this well matched the shirt of woven mail that had stayed two or three arrows which had otherwise laid me low. I felt taller and stronger at that moment than e’er before in my life; and my sword seemed a very plaything in my hands, like that of the Frenchman, De Latiere, who had so nearly done to death my father at the court at Shrewsbury. The outlaw was no novice with the sword, as I who had once before crossed weapons with him, could well testify. But almost at the outset I brought to bear the play that, with my father’s help, I had all that summer been perfecting. A swinging feint at the forearm turned itself in mid-air to a flashing thrust straight at his unguarded throat. I pierced him through and through, and he fell and died at my feet.

Looking about me, I saw most of the outlaws dead or dying and the remainder being fast bound as prisoners. Young Sir Geoffrey of Carleton had dropped his cross-bow on the ground and stood with his mother’s arms firmly clasped about his neck the while he whispered somewhat in her ear. At her side her two handmaids stood unharmed and loudly weeping for joy.

As I stood looking, well content, at this spectacle, the Lady of Carleton suddenly loosed her son and ran toward me. In an instant I too was clasped in a warm embrace.

“Richard of Mountjoy,” she cried, “thou and thine were my son’s friends and rescuers, and now mine also. This day’s deeds bespeak thee far better than any words. Heaven is my witness, I believe thou art a true man and hast spoken the truth as to thy dealings. All that we can do to serve thee shall be done. From this day forth and forever there shall be peace and love betwixt our house and thine.”