“Swartz—I cannot come.” “And why not, man? If——” “I have a doom here to work out; I feel it in my blood. Nor would she go—as yet.” “Try her.” “No; the word would come from her—if it ever came. I stay here, on guard, her man-at-arms. I have set myself on this path, and I shall not leave it.” Swartz knew his man, and that he was not to be persuaded. “One word. I shall make for Gawdy Town; I shall lie there for seven days; if your mind changes you will find Swartz at a tavern near the harbor, at the sign of the ‘Crossed Keys.’ Much may happen in seven days.” They gripped hands. “Look to yourself, Martin.” “There are things a man never forgets.” “Tush! I have the soul of a soldier. Remember the ‘Crossed Keys.’” When Martin Valliant went to his post that night outside the door of Mellis’s room he found a drunken man trying to open her door. It was barred on the inside, but the fellow was fumbling with the latch, sottishly enraged and babbling oaths. Martin took him by the shoulder, sent him rolling down the stairs, and followed to see whether he betrayed any desire to return. The man went down the newel stairway with absurd contortions, like a beetle rolling over and over and kicking as he rolled. He gathered himself up at the bottom, clasped his head between his hands, and disappeared unsteadily through the doorway. Martin returned to the landing outside Mellis’s room, and stood listening. “Mellis!” Her voice answered him from the other side of the door. “I am here. What has happened?” “Nothing. A clown had lost his way, and I showed it to him with some briskness. These knights and gentlemen keep but poor order among their men.” He heard her sigh. “Martin!” “Dear lady!” “I have a feeling of strange restlessness to-night. I know not what ails me.” “What is there to fear?” He spoke with calmness, but her voice had made him think of a wind blowing sadly in the distant woods at night, plaintive and forlorn. His own heart was heavy in him with deep foreboding, though he would not confess to it before her. “Is John Falconer in the house?” “I saw him an hour ago.” “One friend, please God. Where is Swartz?” Martin hesitated, and then gave her the truth. “Escaped—or on the verge of it. He does not trust to promises—fears to be treated as a traitor.” “Ah! he is right. Martin, I have come by a most evil fear of my own people; their eyes do not look straight into mine. That man, Sir Gregory, is no friend of ours. Oh, I know; we women are quick. I feel a shadow over us.” He heard her move the bar that closed the door, and the rustling of her dress. “The shadow is mine,” he said. “No—no.” There was passion in her voice. “It is the evil in the hearts of other men. I feel it—feel it like a fog creeping into my window. And I loved this place; we were so happy, even though death was near; I was not afraid. But now—a dread of something seizes me.”