Of all the crises of my life I am accustomed to think of the presentation of my silver button to the patroon as the most important. Nor did I underrate it at the time. On that night, when the manor was settling itself to sleep, I walked restlessly on the wide terrace, taking account of the game as it stood, of the cards in my hand, and reckoning forward on the play of the morrow.

The manor-house was a rambling stone structure of two stories. It abounded in irregular corners, and in long, gloomy corridors which crossed and forked as intricately as the streets of a city. On the north side, the side visible from the window of my room, there was a wide terrace. When I stepped upon it, it was mostly in the deep shadow. Here and there, however, the moonlight broke across it in narrow silver bands.

I was thinking about my new master and about the danger of my situation. Lady Marmaduke and Pierre had both penetrated my disguise. Was the patroon as keen-eyed as they? Had he recognized me also and had he guessed the secret of my presence? I recalled every word he had said, and every expression of his face, even the idle tapping of his finger tips. The more I pondered the more I was at a loss. I could make nothing of the patroon’s action beyond what appeared on the surface. So I gave over thinking of him and thought of pleasanter things.

There are few joys in this world greater than the approach of danger when it courts success. But when the certainty of success is absent one has not far to go to find happier stuff for musing. My mind was soon full of the girl Miriam. Here, in the very bosom of my enemy’s house, where I was a spy in constant peril of my life, I had found one who, if not exactly my friend, had, at least, a strong claim upon my gratitude. I had no doubt now that I had met the patroon’s daughter when I wandered in my trance, and that she had given me the miniature which I wore about my neck. In my dreams I had thought her an angel. To my waking eyes she appeared no less beautiful. Her tall, graceful figure, her calm eyes and dark hair, above all, her pride and her affection for my sister—all these qualities together won my heart. Though she was a Catholic, I could not cease to think of her as I had seen her when I crouched beneath her father’s window, when she stood bravely facing his headlong anger on behalf of the girl whom she must have considered as a common servant. I made up my mind to protect her. I recalled the goblet that I had seen shatter against the wall. The idea of her needing a protector was not an idle dream.

While I was thinking about her she came towards me, walking slowly along the shadowy terrace. I first spied her white dress shimmering in the dark; then she stepped into a band of moonlight and her whole figure became radiant. I took off my hat, but she passed me without a word or even a bow of recognition. She seemed to have come out upon the terrace for no other purpose than to take the air. She continued to traverse it back and forth without paying any attention to me. Only once she seemed to notice me. Then she stopped in front of me, was about to speak, lifted her head proudly, and passed on.

While we were thus, a distant sound broke savagely upon our ears. The night had fallen very still, so still you could count the chirping crickets. A fringe of birches in the moonlight looked like a row of peering ghosts. The sudden sound that broke the stillness seemed at first to be some one calling out. It was coming nearer, though it came and went drearily. At times it was almost like a song. Occasionally it rose to a long mournful wail; after that there would be silence.

Mistress Van Volkenberg stopped to listen. She stood so near me that I could have touched her with my hand. I could hear her breathe in long gasping breaths. “She must not come to-night,” I heard her mutter. “If I could only warn her back!”

“I am at your service, madam.”

“Hush,” she said. She stepped a little closer to me and continued: “It is Meg of the Hills, a poor crazy woman. But I love her. She used to be my mother’s servant.”

“Is it not safe for her?” I asked.

“Her wild ways anger my father,” was her simple answer.

I needed no further explanation to know why she dreaded a meeting between the two. After five minutes, during which we listened in silence, Meg appeared at the edge of the wide stretch of turf that surrounded the house. She was still chanting her wild song, which was unlike any music I had ever fancied. Behind her, nosing her skirts, came the hound, Caesar, who had fled when I offered to touch him. I inquired again whether I should convey a warning message to her.

“No,” answered my companion. “That would distress my father also. Let us wait.”

The woman and the dog came nearer. They were about to pass us when the latter suddenly stopped and began to growl.

“What is it, Meg?” said my companion in a soothing tone. Then she gripped my arm tight. Her fingers trembled with excitement. I looked around for the cause and saw that her father had stepped upon the terrace. Meantime Meg of the Hills had caught sight of us. She stopped singing. The light fell upon her angular face, full of lines and ridges. Her long white hair streamed like silver down her back. Suddenly she stretched a long, skinny finger at me. She threw back her head like a baying dog. And she wailed in a grewsome drone:

“Meg,” cried the patroon sharply, and in a moment was by her side.

Mistress Van Volkenberg put her lips close to my ear. “That is a bad omen and they are superstitious here. Be wary of yourself to-night.”

I gave full heed to what she said, for the scene was already telling upon my nerves. But what did it mean? My companion would not stop to explain her warning. The patroon disappeared round the corner of the house with his witless charge. I remained alone upon the terrace like a man awakened from a dream. Yet this time I knew that it was no dream.

I did not forget her warning. When I shut the door of my room I looked to the priming of my pistols, drew my sword from its scabbard, and then lay down upon the bed without undressing. Some time later I awakened suddenly with the consciousness that I had been struck in the face; not a heavy blow, but a light one as if by some small object. I sat still, listening. Soon there came a sharp click upon the floor, then another as of something striking against the window frame. Someone was surely throwing pebbles into my room from the outside. I rose and went to look out of my window, which was on the second floor. Below me in the moonlight stood Meg of the Hills. Her skinny finger was raised to her lips for silence. For a moment her features showed intense—what was it? Hatred, anger, fear—I know not. Then she threw up her hands, her head fell back, and she sang:

She pointed her hand at me, pronounced the words, “Be wary,” and was gone swiftly like a shadow on the water. What struck me most was her changed manner. Early in the evening, I had heard her singing in a wild, harsh screech. Now she spoke under her breath, cunningly, as if in secret. Was she warning me and was there cause?

A narrow balcony ran along one side of the house at the level of the second floor, passing just in front of my window. At that moment I heard a casement open and some one step on this balcony. I drew back into my room, catching up my sword and pistols. I smelt danger in the air, though as yet none was visible. Suddenly I concealed myself behind the hangings on the wall. I did this because I saw some one come cautiously to my window and peer through it into my room. I looked again; I could not be mistaken; the figure, the white hair; yes, it was Louis Van Ramm, the patroon’s dwarf.

The room was too dark for him to see my bed. He listened for a short space of time, during which I thought he would surely hear my breathing. Then he crawled cautiously through the casement into my room. He was followed by a strapping fellow, almost a giant, armed with a huge two-handed sword. They had scarcely entered my room when I saw the patroon behind them upon the balcony just outside the window.

“Be quick,” he said in an undertone. “He may wake at any moment.”

The giant who had followed Louis stepped forward at this command from his chief. He stopped three feet from the side of the bed. I could see him outlined against the window though it must have been all dark to him. He poised the great clumsy weapon for a minute, and then swung it about his head. The blade sang through the air and fell across my bed with a deep thud. But for Meg I should have been lying there!

“My God!” shrieked the giant; and I never heard such agony in a human voice.

“What is it?” cried the patroon in alarm, at the same time springing into the room.

“There is no one here,” answered the man who had made this attack upon my bed.

“So much the worse for you,” returned his master. “Quick; we must get out of here. He is probably down stairs upon the terrace. He may come back.”

Then I beheld a scene the meaning of which I could but guess. The fellow who, from his size, could have overmatched both the patroon and the dwarf, cast away his sword, which fell with a loud clash upon the wooden floor. He forgot all caution in his abject terror. He threw himself before the patroon and clung to his knees.

“Mercy, mercy,” he pleaded. “Have mercy.”

“Hush,” answered his master. “I offered you life for life. The man is not here. It cannot be. You are doomed.”

“I cannot die, I cannot die, I cannot die,” he wailed.

Louis sprang to the fellow’s side and clapped his hand over his mouth to smother his cries. Then the three men prepared to leave the room as they had come, by the window. The patroon went first. He walked backward, holding his drawn sword before him. Louis was in the rear, dragging the great weapon that the murderer had cast away. I was soon to behold with horror the sequel to this scene, from which I had so narrowly escaped with my life. As yet, however, I could but guess the meaning of it.

For the benefit of those who are not familiar with the history of those times, I must repeat what I have already hinted in regard to the powers of the patroons. They were much like the barons of the middle ages. They possessed, among other rights, the right to hold court, to try and condemn the persons who lived on their estate. It was not till later that I learned that Patroon Van Volkenberg had burst all bounds in this respect, and had carried this right so far that only his influence upon the island prevented a direct accusation from Bellamont. The patroons throughout the province saw with chagrin the growing power of the governor. It was their hope to end this for all time by some means, as yet not decided upon. Van Volkenberg alone, among them all, had had the courage to come out boldly and arm his household. This was, to his mind, the only way to advance the power of his class. The Red Band was the result. How it failed we shall learn in the following pages. When the time came for it to fall, it fell completely. Not a blot of it was left to cumber the earth. Even in my own day people have forgotten it. Only now and then do I find anyone who remembers the Red Band, and the rising of the people, and the fate of the patroon. But there are things in that old story of a past time that should be told, and therefore it is that I have set down this narrative to preserve a chronicle that has disappeared from the pages of history so completely that there are some who doubt its very existence.

The patroon, then, carried his fancied powers to the limits of life and death. On the afternoon of my arrival at Van Volkenberg manor, the man who had visited my room in company with the patroon and his henchman in the dead of night, had been convicted of a misdemeanor worthy of death. He was not tried by a regular court such as the patroon was by law entitled to hold. His offense was a violation of one of the laws of the Red Band; and by the Red Band he was condemned to die. When I understood these facts at a later date, I had little trouble in understanding what had taken place in my room. The patroon had bribed him to kill me. The fellow’s reward was freedom, escape from the sentence of the Red Band. How the patroon would have made it right with his followers I do not know; but so much must have been true. However, I am getting ahead of my story. When they left me I knew nothing of this. Nor, for a while, could I even guess at the meaning of what began to take place outside my window in front of the great terrace before the house.

Two men came out bearing upon their shoulders bundles of articles which I did not recognize till they were stuck upright in the ground at regular intervals. They were the cressets which I had seen burning on the first night when I came accidentally upon the Red Band at drill. Soon they were all ablaze. Then members of the Red Band began to gather by twos and threes, walking back and forth within the hollow square of light. Some were talking; others were singing; all of them seemed to be under some strain that needed shaking off.

At last, when there were so many of them that I lost all count, they began to range themselves in an orderly fashion, facing the house. The lights flared fitfully, showing me how serious every face was. Still I was ignorant of what was going to happen.

I had in the meantime strolled out upon the terrace. It was not long before the patroon came out also. He saw me, nodded pleasantly, and faced the band. What he said to them partially explained the situation.

“Men of the Red Band: By your own decree, Ronald Guy has been adjudged guilty of violation of our laws, and is therefore worthy of death. The hour of execution has come. Let the chosen ten step forward.”

Ten men stepped forward from the front rank of the company. Then, as they drew near the terrace, I noticed for the first time that ten muskets were lying there side by side. Each man took up one of the muskets.

“Only one of these weapons is loaded to kill,” said the patroon. “The executioner will not know himself. Let each of you aim as if he did.”

There was a short silence after that, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the cressets; next the sound of feet coming. A slow, steady tramp sounded along the hall. It came nearer, funereal in its slowness. It sent the cold streaking down my back and I shuddered at the thought. They were bringing him to his death. He was blindfolded, but I knew him by his size. He had tried to take my life. I do not know what else he had done. Perhaps he merited death. In that dreadful moment I bore him no ill-will for what he had tried to do to me. Death is death, and the cold-blooded savagery of this scene was appalling.

While the condemned man was being brought forward the patroon was stern and silent. There was no token of remorse in his face. He betrayed no embarrassment when our eyes met. His cursed band of troopers was silent and still like so many statues. Now and then I would see an eye blink that was turned just right to reflect the light. I saw no other sign of life, though once I thought the whole band took breath together.

This execution in the dead of night was a cruel scene. The air was still. The wild flames of the sputtering torches was like hell. They sent long shadows leaping into the dark to lose themselves in the forest beyond. Nothing is so mysterious and so ghastly as many human beings crowded close together, and always still, still, still as death. The strain of what I looked upon became almost unendurable. I wanted to cry out. I wanted to say they should not do it. In a moment I should have shrieked. But relief came from an unexpected source.

The prisoner was told to stand still. The patroon made a sign to the chosen ten. They lifted their muskets to fire. I gripped tight hold of the railing in front of me. I shrank back and closed my eyes. The next moment I should hear the quick report of the guns and smell the deadly powder.

Instead, a shrill owl-hoot broke upon the air. It was a common sound in those parts, but it came so unexpectedly, when everyone was so keyed up, that one cry broke from the strained band of troopers. But it was no owl-hoot after all, only an imitation. It was followed immediately by the uncanny voice of crazy Meg:

“Fire,” shouted the patroon.

The rifles crashed on the frosty air. A dull thud followed. When I looked up, Ronald lay huddled in a heap. I put my hand over my eyes to shut out the sight. When I looked again, Meg was at his side singing.

I was not the only person who had been strained beyond endurance by the excitement of that moment. The patroon had lost his wits. He sprang to the old woman’s side.

“Stop your nonsense, hag.”

Again she threw back her head in that peculiar, dog-like way.

He doubled up his fist and struck her square in the mouth. Like a pack of wolves the troopers fell in with their master’s lead. They began to howl about her. One gripped her by the hair and pulled her down. Two others caught her by the legs to drag her across the terrace. God forgive them, they hardly knew what they did! I was struck with horror, then with surprise. For Louis Van Ramm sprang like a snake upon his master and caught him by the throat.

“Call off your dogs,” he yelled. “Call off your dogs or I’ll strangle you.”

The patroon obeyed him like a child. It was all he could do to control his followers. It was a grand sight to see the old man plow fearlessly among them, and try to undo what he had done. He battled his way inch by inch to Meg’s side. Soon his influence began to tell. The tumult stilled apace. One by one the troopers slunk away. Before long we were all alone.

“Meg,” said the patroon with almost a touch of tenderness in his voice. “Meg, are you hurt?”

The prostrate woman raised herself upon her elbow. “And if ye dare to kiss my lips,” she sang, “sure of your bodie I will be.”

“For God’s sake,” cried the patroon. “Will she never have done with that?”

He threw up his arms and staggered backward towards the house. His daughter was there to meet him in the doorway. She put her arm about him and supported him away. He seemed to have gone suddenly senseless.

My first care was the old woman. She was unhurt, though overcome by the nervous shock. I carried her to a place of safety, the little dwarf following us like a faithful dog. When we had revived the old woman, he and I returned to bury Ronald Guy. All the other members of the band had disappeared as if they were afraid to remain on the scene of their lawless deed. We had closed the grave and were about to part, when Louis put out his hand.

“I shall not tell you what we have been doing to-night,” he said. “But I swear, before God, hereafter to be your good friend.”

With that he went back to old Meg, and I returned to my room.