He made so little of it that Barbara did not press him further, for she had no knowledge of the pit that had been opened for her, with its well-like shoot cut in the thickness of the tower wall. John Gore began to gather up all that belonged to him, and, finding a sack in one of the cupboards, he tumbled the tools and rope into it, tying the mouth of the sack with a strip of stuff torn from the quilt of the couch. His own sword was broken in its scabbard, so he took the hanger down that hung over the fireplace, and also the long carbine that had a strap for slinging across the back. John Gore had brought his horseman’s cloak with him from under the thorn-tree, and he took it and laid it upon Barbara’s shoulders. Moreover, Mrs. Winnie had lent him a woollen scarf and some gloves, which he had stowed away at the bottom of his holsters, and he knew that the girl would need them because of the keen wind. “I have left the horse in the woods, Barbe. What sort of shoes are you wearing?” She showed him them, and he did not commend their flimsiness. “You must let me carry you, child, or you will have your stockings soaked in those boggy meadows, and we shall be somewhile on the road.” She glanced at the table where the sack and the arms lay, and then gave him an unequivocal smile. “And you think you can carry me as well as all that, John?” “It can be done.” “I am not so selfish as that. I have stolen your cloak already.” “There is another on the horse.” “Instead of carrying me, John, give me something to carry.” He looked at the thin hands she held out to him. “There is your book.” “Yes, but I can take more than that.” “As for that, we will see what the grass is like when we get over the moat.” They went out together into the court-yard, where the moonlight came down upon the checker of stones outlined and interlaced with grass and weeds. Above them rose the black tower, dark as with mystery, while on every hand dim, silvery hills rose toward the frosty curtain of the sky. “I had forgotten the dog.” The mastiff had come out from the old cask that served him as a kennel, and was clanking his chain over the stones and growling. “Some one will find him, John; they may come back when we have gone.” But John Gore knew better. He did not like the thought of leaving the beast chained there to starve, and he was debating whether a pistol bullet would not be the kinder end, when something far more hazardous challenged his attention. The wind was beating about Thorn, shaking the ivy on the walls, while the clank of the dog’s chain had a suggestive ghostliness. Yet beyond these sounds came the dull, rhythmic thud of a horse trotting over stiffening turf, the muffled cadence coming down upon the wind as they stood in the court of Thorn and listened. “Quick, dear, we must play at hide-and-seek. It is that fellow Grylls riding back again.”