Mellis had slipped out of bed and was trying to find the sword that Martin had brought her out of the vault. She could hear men struggling in the room, but the light was too dim for her to see what was passing. A horror of helplessness seized her; she shrank back against the wall, with her hands pressed to her ears. “Help, there—help!” Martin had broken free and was on his feet. One man lay writhing with a bone in his throat broken; another had been thrown against the wall and stunned. Martin had another fellow lying bent across his knees and was choking him, while the fourth man clung to his feet. Then Falconer and his torches came up the stairs; the doorway filled with smoke and glare and steel. A sudden palsy seemed to strike all the players in that tragedy. Valliant let go of the man whom he was throttling, while the fellow who had been clinging to Martin’s ankles squirmed away toward the door. Martin stood motionless, like a wrestler touched by enchantment and turned into a statue; Mellis, her hands to her ears, her eyes two great black circles, leaned against the wall; Falconer, with torch and sword in the doorway, held back the men who were behind him. Martin’s sword lay close to Mellis’s bed. His eyes looked at it, but he did not move. Then Falconer spoke. “Martin Valliant, no harm is meant you. Leave the sword lying there; it will not avail.” Mellis’s lips moved, but no sound came from them. She moved forward into the room, and her eyes were on John Falconer’s face. “Traitor!” His mouth twitched; he looked at Martin, and passed her over. “Valliant, we captains have sworn not to keep you as one of us. It is our right to choose; we have our reasons. No harm shall be done you; you shall go out into the Forest—as you came from it. Take your life, man; this room is no place for you, and no place for brawls and violence.” Martin’s face was gray and haggard. The muscles stood out like cords in his throat, and he drew his breath heavily. He gave one glance at Mellis, and moved suddenly toward the door. “Explicit,” he said, crossing his hands upon his chest. “God have mercy on us all, John Falconer.” The men seized him and hurried him down the stairway, nor did he resist. In the courtyard they stripped him of his armor, leaving him nothing but his old cassock, a girdle and a knife. He was taken across the bridge and through the camp to the beech wood. A knight in black harness was waiting there, leaning on his sword. One of the men gave Martin a wallet full of food. The knight—it was Sir Gregory—went close to Martin, and stared into his face. “Let us not see you again,” he said. “Go—and take your shame and your sin away from us.” He pointed with his sword into the gloom of the beeches. “Show your face again, and there shall be no mercy for you, you thing of evil omen. Go!” And Martin Valliant went from them into the darkness like a broken man carrying a curse.