A moment later the servants in the hall heard a scream--a scream of such horror and fear that they scarcely recognized a human voice in the sound. They sprang to their feet scared and trembling, and for a few seconds looked into one another's faces. Then, as curiosity got the upper hand, the boldest took the lead and all hurried pell-mell to the door, issuing in a mob into the courtyard, where Ferdinand Cludde, who happened to be near and had also heard the cry, joined them. "Where was it, Baldwin?" he exclaimed.

"At the back, I think," the steward answered. He alone had had the coolness to bring out a lantern, and he now led the way toward the rear of the house. Sure enough, close to the edge of the moat, they found Martin, stooping with his hands on his knees, a great wound, half bruise, half cut, upon his forehead. "What is it?" Ferdinand cried sharply. "Who did it, man?"

Baldwin had already thrown his light on the fool's face, and Martin, seeming to become conscious of their presence, looked at them, but in a dazed fashion. "What?" he muttered, "what is what?"

By this time nearly every one in the house had hurried to the spot; among them not only Petronilla, clinging to her father's arm, but Mistress Anne, her face pale and gloomy, and half a dozen womenfolk who clutched one another tightly, and screamed at regular intervals.

"What is it?" Baldwin repeated roughly, laying his hand on Martin's arm and slightly shaking him. "Come, who struck you, man?"

"I think," the fool answered slowly, gulping down something and turning a dull eye on the group; "a--a swallow flew by--and hit me!"

They shrank away from him instinctively and some crossed themselves. "He is in one of his mad fits," Baldwin muttered. Still the steward showed no fear. "A swallow, man!" he cried aloud. "Come, talk sense. There are no swallows flying at this time of year. And if there were, they do not fly by night, nor give men wounds like that. What was it? Out with it, now. Do you not see, man," he added, giving Martin an impatient shake, "that Sir Anthony is waiting?"

The fool nodded stupidly. "A swallow," he muttered. "Ay, 'twas a swallow, a great big swallow. I--I nearly put my foot on him."

"And he flew up and hit you in the face?" Baldwin said, with huge contempt in his tone.

Martin accepted the suggestion placidly. "Ay, 'twas so. A great big swallow, and he flew in my face," he repeated.

Sir Anthony looked at him compassionately. "Poor fellow!" he said; "Baldwin, see to him. He has had one of his fits and hurt himself."

"I never knew him hurt himself," Baldwin muttered darkly.

"Let somebody see to him," the knight said, disregarding the interruption. "And now come, Petronilla. Why--where has the girl gone?"

Not far. Only round to the other side of him, that she might be a little nearer to Martin. The curiosity in the other women's faces was a small thing in comparison with the startled, earnest look in hers. She gazed at the man with eyes not of affright, but of eager, avid questioning, while through her parted lips her breath came in gasps. Her cheek was red and white by turns, and, for her heart--well, it had seemed to stand still a moment, and now was beating like the heart of some poor captured bird held in the hand. She did not seem to hear her father speak to her, and he had to touch her sleeve. Then she started as though she were awakening from a dream, and followed him sadly into the house.

Sadly, and yet there was a light in her eyes which had not been there five minutes before. A swallow? A great big swallow? And this was December, when the swallows were at the bottom of the horse-ponds. She only knew of one swallow whose return was possible in winter. But then that one swallow--ay, though the snow should lie inches deep in the chase, and the water should freeze in her room--would make a summer for her. Could it be that one? Could it be? Petronilla's heart was beating so loudly as she went upstairs after her father, that she wondered he did not hear it.

The group left round Martin gradually melted away. Baldwin was the only man who could deal with him in his mad fits, and the other servants, with a shudder and a backward glance, gladly left him to the steward. Mistress Anne had gone in some time. Only Ferdinand Cludde remained, and he stood a little apart, and seemed more deeply engaged in listening for any sound which might betoken the sheriff's approach than in hearkening to their conversation. Listen as he might he would have gained little from the latter, for it was made up entirely of scolding on one side and stupid reiteration on the other. Yet Ferdinand, ever suspicious and on his guard, must have felt some interest in it, for he presently called the steward to him. "Is he more fool or knave?" he muttered, pointing under hand at Martin, who stood in the gloom a few paces away.

Baldwin shrugged his shoulders, but remained silent. "What happened? What is the meaning of it all?" Ferdinand persisted, his keen eyes on the steward's face. "Did he do it himself? Or who did it?"

Baldwin turned slowly and nodded toward the moat. "I expect you will find him who did it there," he said grimly. "I never knew a man save Sir Anthony or Master Francis hit Martin yet, but he paid for it. And when his temper is up, he is mad, or as good as mad; and better than two sane men!"

"He is a dangerous fellow," Ferdinand said thoughtfully, shivering a little. It was unlike him to shiver and shake. But the bravest have their moods.

"Dangerous?" the steward answered. "Ay, he is to some, and sometimes."

Ferdinand Cludde looked sharply at the speaker, as if he suspected him of a covert sneer. But Baldwin's gloomy face betrayed no glint of intelligence or amusement, and the knight's brother, reassured and yet uneasy, turned on his heel and went into the house, meeting at the door a servant who came to tell him that Sir Anthony was calling for him. Baldwin Moor, left alone, stood a moment thinking, and then turned to speak to Martin. But Martin was gone, and was nowhere to be seen.

The lights in the hall windows twinkled cheerily, and the great fire cast its glow half way across the courtyard, as lights and fire had twinkled and glowed at Coton End on many a night before. But neither in hall nor chamber was there any answering merriment. Baldwin, coming in, cursed the servants who were in his way, and the men moved meekly and without retort, taking his oaths for what they were--a man's tears. The women folk sat listening pale and frightened, and one or two of the grooms, those who had done least in the skirmish, had visions of a tree and a rope, and looked sickly. The rest scowled and blinked at the fire, or kicked up a dog if it barked in its sleep.

"Hasn't Martin come in?" Baldwin growled presently, setting his heavy wet boot on a glowing log, which hissed and sputtered under it. "Where is he?"

"Don't know!" one of the men took on himself to answer. "He did not come in here."

"I wonder what he is up to now?" Baldwin exclaimed, with gloomy irritation; for which, under the circumstances, he had ample excuse. He knew that resistance was utterly hopeless, and could only make matters worse, and twist the rope more tightly about his neck, to put the thought as he framed it. The suspicion, therefore, that this madman--for such in his worst fits the fool became--might be hanging round the place in dark corners, doing what deadly mischief he could to the attacking party, was not a pleasant one.

A gray-haired man in the warmest nook by the fire seemed to read his thoughts. "There is one in the house," he said slowly and oracularly, his eyes on Baldwin's boot, "whom he has just as good a mind to hurt, has our Martin, as any of them Clopton men. Ay, that has he, Master Baldwin."

"And who is that, gaffer?" Baldwin asked contemptuously.

But the old fellow turned shy. "Well, it is not Sir Anthony," he answered, nodding his head, and stooping forward to caress his toasting shins. "Be you very sure of that. Nor the young mistress, nor the young master as was, nor the new lady that came a month ago. No, nor it is not you, Master Baldwin."

"Then who is it?" cried the steward impatiently.

"He is shrewd, is Martin--when the saints have not got their backs to him," said the old fellow slyly.

"Who is it?" thundered the steward, well used to this rustic method of evasion. "Answer, you dolt!"

But no answer came, and Baldwin never got one; for at this moment a man who had been watching in front of the house ran in.

"They are here!" he cried, "a good hundred of them, and torches enough for St. Anthony's Eve. Get you to the gate, porter, Sir Anthony is calling for you. Do you hear?"

There was a great uprising, a great clattering of feet and barking of dogs, and some wailing among the women. As the messenger finished speaking, a harsh challenge which penetrated even the courtyard arose from many voices without, and was followed by the winding of a horn. This sufficed. All hurried with one accord into the court, where the porter looked to Baldwin for instructions.

"Hold a minute!" cried the steward, silencing the loudest hound by a sound kick, and disregarding Sir Anthony's voice, which came from the direction of the gateway. "Let us see if they are at the back too."

He ran through the passage and, emerging on the edge of the moat, was at once saluted by a dozen voices warning him back. There were a score of dark figures standing in the little close where the fight had taken place. "Right," said Baldwin to himself. "Needs must when the old gentleman drives! Only I thought I would make sure."

He ran back at once, nearly knocking down Martin, who with a companion was making, but at a slower pace, for the front of the house.

"Well, old comrade!" cried the steward, smiting the fool on the back as he passed, "you are here, are you? I never thought that you and I would be in at our own deaths!"

He did not notice, in the wild humor which had seized him, who Martin's companion was, though probably at another time it would have struck him that there was no one in the house quite so tall. He sped on with scarcely a glance, and in a moment was under the gateway, where Sir Anthony was soundly rating everybody, and particularly the porter, who with his key in the door found or affected to find the task of turning it a difficult one. As the steward came up, however, the big doors at some sign from him creaked on their hinges, and the knight, his staff in his hand, and the servants clustering behind him with lanterns, walked forward a pace or two to the end of the bridge, bearing himself with some dignity.

"Who disturbs us at this hour?" he cried, peering across the moat, and signing to Baldwin to hold up his large lantern, since the others, uncertain of their reception, had put out their torches. By its light he and those behind him could make out a group of half a dozen figures a score of yards away, while in support of these there appeared a bowshot off, and still in the open ground, a clump of, it might be, a hundred men. Beyond all lay the dark line of trees, above which the moon, new-risen, was sailing through a watery wrack of clouds. "Who are ye?" the knight repeated.

"Are you Sir Anthony Cludde?" came the answer.

"I am."

"Then in the Queen's name, Sir Anthony," the leader of the troop cried solemnly, "I call on you to surrender. I hold a warrant for your arrest, and also for the arrest of James Carey, a priest, and Baldwin Moor, who, I am told, is your steward. I am backed by forces which it will be vain to resist."

"Are you Sir Philip Clopton?" the knight asked. For at that distance and in that light it was impossible to be sure.

"I am," the sheriff answered earnestly. "And, as a friend, I beg you, Sir Anthony, to avoid useless bloodshed and further cause for offense. Sir Thomas Greville, the governor of Warwick Castle, and Colonel Bridgewater are with me. I implore you, my friend, to surrender, and I will do you what good offices I may."

The knight, as we know, had made up his mind. And yet for a second he hesitated. There were stern, grim faces round him, changed by the stress of the moment into the semblance of dark Baldwin's; the faces of men, who though they numbered but a dozen were his men, bound to him by every tie of instinct, and breeding, and custom. And he had been a soldier, and knew the fierce joy of a desperate struggle against odds. Might it not be better after all?

But then he remembered his womenkind; and after all, why endanger these faithful men? He raised his voice and cried clearly, "I accept your good offices, Sir Philip, and I take your advice. I will have the drawbridge lowered, only I beg you will keep your men well in hand, and do my poor house as little damage as may be."

Giving Baldwin the order, and bidding him as soon as it was performed come to him, the knight walked steadily back into the courtyard and took his stand there. He dispatched the women and some of the servants to lay out a meal in the hall. But it was noticeable that the men went reluctantly, and that all who could find any excuse to do so lingered round Sir Anthony as if they could not bear to abandon him; as if, even at the last moment, they had some vague notion of protecting their master at all hazards. A score of lanterns shed a gloomy, uncertain light--only in places reinforced by the glow, from the hall windows--upon the group. Seldom had a Coton moon peeped over the gables at a scene stranger than that which met the sheriff's eyes, as with his two backers he passed under the gateway.

"I surrender to you, Sir Philip," the knight said with dignity, stepping forward a pace or two, "and call you to witness that I might have made resistance and have not. My tenants are quiet in their homes, and only my servants are present. Father Carey is not here, nor in the house. This is Baldwin Moor, my steward, but I beg for him your especial offices, since he has done nothing save by my command."

"Sir Anthony, believe me that I will do all I can," the sheriff responded gravely, "but----"

"But to set at naught the Queen's proclamation and order!" struck in a third voice harshly--it was Sir Thomas Greville's--"and she but a month on the throne! For shame, Sir Anthony! It smacks to me of high treason. And many a man has suffered for less, let me tell you."

"Had she been longer on the throne," the sheriff put in more gently, "and were the times quiet, the matter would have been of less moment, Sir Anthony, and might not have become a state matter. But just now----"

"Things are in a perilous condition," Greville said bluntly, "and you have done your little to make them worse!"

The knight by a great effort swallowed his rage and humiliation. "What will you do with me, gentlemen?" he asked, speaking with at least the appearance of calmness.

"That is to be seen," Greville said, roughly over-riding his companion. "For to-night we must make ourselves and our men comfortable here."

"Certainly--with Sir Anthony's leave, Sir Thomas Greville," quoth a voice from behind. "But only so!"

More than one started violently, while the Cludde servants almost to a man spun round at the sound of the voice--my voice, Francis Cludde's, though in the darknesss no one knew me. How shall I ever forget the joy and lively gratitude which filled my heart as I spoke; which turned the night into day, and that fantastic scene of shadows into a festival, as I felt that the ambition of the last four years was about to be gratified. Sir Anthony, who was one of the first to turn, peered among the servants. "Who spoke?" he cried, a sudden discomposure in his voice and manner. "Who spoke there?"

"Ay, Sir Anthony, who did?" Greville said haughtily. "Some one apparently who does not quite understand his place or the state of affairs here. Stand back, my men, and let me see him. Perhaps we may teach him a useful lesson."

The challenge was welcome, for I feared a scene, and to be left face to face with my uncle more than anything. Now, as the servants with a loud murmur of surprise and recognition fell back and disclosed me standing by Martin's side, I turned a little from Sir Anthony and faced Greville. "Not this time, I think, Sir Thomas," I said, giving him back glance for glance. "I have learned my lesson from some who have fared farther and seen more than you, from men who have stood by their cause in foul weather as well as fair; and were not for mass one day and a sermon the next."

"What is this?" he cried angrily. "Who are you?"

"Sir Anthony Cludde's dutiful and loving nephew," I answered, with a courteous bow. "Come back, I thank Heaven, in time to do him a service, Sir Thomas."

"Master Francis! Master Francis!" Clopton exclaimed in remonstrance. He had known me in old days. My uncle, meanwhile, gazed at me in the utmost astonishment, and into the servants' faces there flashed a strange light, while many of them hailed me in a tone which told me that I had but to give the word, and they would fall on the very sheriff himself. "Master Francis," Sir Philip Clopton repeated gravely, "if you would do your uncle a service, this is not the way to go about it. He has surrendered and is our prisoner. Brawling will not mend matters."

I laughed out loudly and merrily. "Do you know, Sir Philip," I said, with something of the old boyish ring in my voice, "I have been, since I saw you last, to Belgium and Germany, ay, and Poland and Hamburg! Do you think I have come back a fool?"

"I do not know what to think of you," he replied dryly, "but you had best----"

"Keep a civil tongue in your head, my friend!" said Greville with harshness, "and yourself out of this business."

"It is just this business I have come to get into, Sir Thomas," I answered, with increasing good humor. "Sir Anthony, show them that!" I continued, and I drew out a little packet of parchment with a great red seal hanging from it by a green ribbon; just such a packet as that which I had stolen from the Bishop's apparitor nearly four years back. "A lantern here!" I cried. "Hold it steady, Martin, that Sir Anthony may read. Master Sheriff wants his rere-supper."

I gave the packet into the knight's hand, my own shaking. Ay, shaking, for was not this the fulfillment of that boyish vow I had made in my little room in the gable yonder, so many years ago? A fulfillment strange and timely, such as none but a boy in his teens could have hoped for, nor any but a man who had tried the chances and mishaps of the world could fully enjoy as I was enjoying it. I tingled with the rush through my veins of triumph and gratitude. Up to the last moment I had feared lest anything should go wrong, lest this crowning happiness should be withheld from me. Now I stood there smiling, watching Sir Anthony, as with trembling fingers he fumbled with the paper. And there was only one thing, only one person, wanting to my joy. I looked, and looked again, but I could not anywhere see Petronilla.

"What is it?" Sir Anthony said feebly, turning the packet over and over. "It is for the sheriff; for the sheriff, is it not?"

"He had better open it then, sir," I answered gayly.

Sir Philip took the packet and after a glance at the address tore it open. "It is an order from Sir William Cecil," he muttered. Then he ran his eye down the brief contents, while all save myself pricked their ears and pressed closer, and I looked swiftly from face to face, as the wavering light lit up now one and now another. Old familiar faces for the most part.

"Well, Sir Philip, will you stop to supper?" I cried with a laugh, when he had had time, as I judged, to reach the signature.

"Go to!" he grunted, looking at me. "Nice fools you have made of us, young man!" He passed the letter to Greville. "Sir Anthony," he continued, a mixture of pleasure and chagrin in his voice, "you are free! I congratulate you on your luck. Your nephew has brought an amnesty for all things done up to the present time save for any life taken, in which case the matter is to be referred to the Secretary. Fortunately my dead horse is the worst of the mischief, so free you are, and amnestied, though nicely Master Cecil has befooled us!"

"We will give you another horse, Sir Philip," I answered.

But the words were wasted on the air. They were drowned in a great shout of joy and triumph which rang from a score of Cludde throats the moment the purport of the paper was understood; a shout which made the old house shake again, and scared the dogs so that they fled away into corners and gazed askance at us, their tails between their legs; a shout that was plainly heard a mile away in half a dozen homesteads where Cludde men lay gloomy in their beds.

By this time my uncle's hand was in mine. With his other he took off his hat. "Lads!" he cried huskily, rearing his tall form in our midst; "a cheer for the Queen! God keep her safe, and long may she reign!"

This was universally regarded as the end of what they still proudly call in those parts "the Coton Insurrection!" When silence came again, every dog, even the oldest and wisest, had bayed himself hoarse and fled to kennel, thinking the end of the world was come. My heart, as I joined roundly in, swelled high with pride, and there were tears in my eyes as well as in my uncle's. But there is no triumph after all without its drawback, no fruition equal to the anticipation. Where was Petronilla? I could see her nowhere. I looked from window to window, but she was at none. I scanned the knot of maids, but could not find her. Even the cheering had not brought her out.

It was wonderful, though, how the cheers cleared the air. Even Sir Thomas Greville regained good humor, and deigned to shake me by the hand and express himself pleased that the matter had ended so happily. Then the sheriff drew him and Bridgewater away, to look to their men's arrangements, seeing, I think, that my uncle and I would fain be alone awhile; and at last I asked with a trembling voice after Petronilla.

"To be sure," Sir Anthony answered, furtively wiping his eyes. "I had forgotten her, dear lad. I wish now that she had stayed. But tell me, Francis, how came you back to-night, and how did you manage this?"

Something of what he asked I told him hurriedly. But then--be sure I took advantage of the first opening--I asked again after Petronilla. "Where has she gone, sir?" I said, trying to conceal my impatience. "I thought that Martin told me she was here; indeed, that he had seen her after I arrived."

"I am not sure, do you know," Sir Anthony answered, eying me absently, "that I was wise, but I considered she was safer away, Francis. And she can be fetched back in the morning. I feared there might be some disturbance in the house--as indeed there well might have been--and though she begged very hard to stay with me, I sent her off."

"This evening, sir?" I stammered, suddenly chilled.

"Yes, an hour ago."

"But an hour ago every approach was guarded, Sir Anthony," I cried in surprise. "I had the greatest difficulty in slipping through from the outside myself, well as I know every field and tree. To escape from within, even for a man, much less a woman, would have been impossible. She will have been stopped."

"I think not," he said, with a smile at once sage and indulgent--which seemed to add, "You think yourself a clever lad, but you do not know everything yet."

"I sent her out by the secret passage to the mill-house, you see," he explained, "as soon as I heard the sheriff's party outside. I could have given them the slip myself, had I pleased."

"The mill house?" I answered. The mill stood nearly a quarter of a mile from Coton End, beyond the gardens, and in the direction of the village. I remembered vaguely that I had heard from the servants in old days some talk of a secret outlet leading from the house to it. But they knew no particulars, and its existence was only darkly rumored among them.

"You did not know of the passage," Sir Anthony said, chuckling at my astonishment. "No, I remember. But the girl did. Your father and his wife went with her. He quite agreed in the wisdom of sending her away, and indeed advised it. On reaching the mill, if they found all quiet they were to walk across to Watney's farm. There they could get horses and might ride at their leisure to Stratford and wait the event. I thought it best for her; and Ferdinand agreed."

"And my father--went with her?" I muttered hoarsely, feeling myself growing chill to the heart. Hardly could I restrain my indignation at Sir Anthony's folly, or my own anger and disappointment--and fear. For though my head seemed on fire and there was a tumult in my brain, I was cool enough to trace clearly my father's motives, and discern with what a deliberate purpose he had acted. "He went with her?"

"Yes, he and his wife," the knight answered, noticing nothing in his obtuseness.

"You have been fooled, sir," I said bitterly. "My father you should have known, and for his wife, she is a bad, unscrupulous woman! Oh, the madness of it, to put my cousin into their hands!"

"What do you mean?" the knight cried, beginning to tremble. "Your father is a changed man, lad. He has come back to the old faith and in a dark hour too. He----"

"He is a hypocrite and a villain!" I retorted, stung almost to madness by this wound in my tenderest place; stung indeed beyond endurance. Why should I spare him, when to spare him was to sacrifice the innocent? Why should I pick my words, when my love was in danger? He had had no mercy and no pity. Why should I shrink from exposing him? Heaven had dealt with him patiently and given him life; and he did but abuse it. I could keep silence no longer, and told Sir Anthony all with a stinging tongue and in gibing words; even, at last, how my father had given me a hint of the very plan he had now carried out, of coming down to Coton, and goading his brother into some offense which might leave his estate at the mercy of the authorities.

"I did not think he meant it," I said bitterly. "But I might have known that the leopard does not change its spots. How you, who knew him years ago, and knew that he had plotted against you since, came to trust him again--to trust your daughter to him--passes my fancy!"

"He was my brother," the knight murmured, leaning white and stricken on my shoulder.

"And my father--heaven help us!" I rejoined.