"And what about them bitches?" he said, motioning with his head toward the door of Mary's cell, pierced by the barred window. "They heard the whole of it, too." "Fool!" cried Purceville, with deliberate menace. "They'll not live out the night. Now go! " Ballard lowered his head, then walked sullenly past his two superiors: the one living, the other dead. He began to descend in pursuit, but his pace was far from running. After a time he slowed to a walk. . .then finally stopped altogether. He knew the man could not escape him. The thick and impenetrable door sealed him in, and two of his own men guarded the long, unapproachable corridor. No outsider would hear his cries, or come to his aid. But this was not what made him pause. Things were becoming too complicated, as the old man took more and more chances to protect himself. And what if he failed? Who had been his `loyal right hand' these many years, doing the dirty work, and taking all the risks? "Toby Ballard," he muttered. "That's who. And likely to have my neck stretched for the trouble." That very day he had killed a King's messenger---the man Arthur had despatched---for which he might well taste the gallows. And there was yet one more bitter savor added to the stew: he had developed a weakness for the girl. What he felt for his `little prisoner' could hardly be called love, and he knew that in time she would have to be done away with. But to be killed by him , tonight, before his desire had been met and served..... He sat down on a middle landing, neither high nor low, trying to work it all through in his mind. For the Lord Purceville had misjudged him. What this man felt for him was not loyalty, but merely a primal respect for his strength, such as any pack animal might feel. And now that strength had begun to fail. Me, I sticks with the meanest dog, and when he's killed I go my own way . But who was the meanest dog now, and which side would prevail? Arthur was dead, but the power of the Crown..... These were the things he tried to weigh, knowing that very soon he must decide. And then he must act. Thirty-Four The two men lay peering over the edge of a low, crumbling wall, looking down a sharp slope at the garrison below. Row after row of long, low buildings met their eyes. Behind the barracks, to the watchers' left, were the stables for the horses; in front of them, the night watch stood talking or drinking coffee before a blazing fire. Two sentinels paced back and forth between cornering guardhouses, with the pickets of the mounted patrols just beyond. It was now full night. The rising moon was exactly halved, with long bars of smoky cloud passing at intervals across it. The resulting twilight was neither pale nor pitch, but a sporadic intermingling of both. Whether moonlight or deepest shadow fell across the creatures of earth, seemed entirely a matter of chance. Neither help nor hindrance, Michael thought. But he expected no more.