“You saw no more than one man?” “A giant, sir, a devil of a fellow in white harness, plated from poll to toes.” “Ah, a paladin! You say that he killed Swartz and five more?” “He was like an iron bull, my lord.” “And so you ran away! Yes, yes—I have no patience to waste, fool, on your paltry lies. You saw nothing of a woman?” “Nothing, my lord.” “Very well. Out with you—out of my sight! Master Rich, come here to me.” The five slouched out, and John Rich, who was sitting at the far end of the dais table, came and stood behind Roger Bland’s chair. “My lord?” “Ah, Master Rich, bend your head nearer. You will take thirty men and such gear as you need, and ride at dawn. I must have this fabulous fellow in white harness. See to it that he does not frighten you all.” Rich grinned. “It shall be done, my lord.” “Man, let it be done. I am beginning to be angry.” Five minutes later my Lord of Troy took a last sip of sweet wine, washed his hands in perfumed water, and went to his closet. Fulk de Lisle followed at his heels, smiling humorously at the great man’s back. “Fulk de Lisle.” “My dear lord?” “Is there more in this, think you, than meets the eye?” “The slaying of Vance, sir, was very natural, and I take it that Swartz fell by the same hand. This bastard priest is something of an enigma. How did he come by armor and a sword? Such things do not grow in the Forest.” Roger Bland’s pale eyelids seemed to flicker. “We must see the end and bottom of this affair. I have given John Rich the adventure; I give you John Rich. Is that plain to you?” “Most plain, my lord.” “See that this business is carried through. I want the Forest’s secret—if it is keeping a secret. I care not how it is come by.” Fulk de Lisle bowed. “You have a spacious way, my lord, of sending a gentleman upon your business. We are not cramped and hindered by little abominations of the law. It is an honor to serve you.” And he went out with the air of a man who knew himself to be shrewder than his master. Such were the preparations that were maturing at Troy Castle on the night after Martin Valliant’s defeat of Swartz and his men. John Rich took the road next morning, while Martin was improving his footbridge, and Mellis was chastening the hot vanities of young Nigel Blount. Martin had brought the three horses over the mere, stabled them in the old dining hall, pulled up the bridge and shut the gate. He took life with great seriousness, but his heart was full of a new song. Martin was shaping a new oak bar for the garden postern when Peter Swartz came out of the orchard for a gossip. He had slept passably and eaten better, though his legs were none too steady under him. He squatted on the grass, and watched Martin with a friendly glint in his eyes. “My noddle still simmers like a boiling pot. What happens to-day, brother?” “What God wills.” Swartz looked at him intently.