She had thrust out her arm to keep him behind her, when the big door at the end of the hall opening on to the terrace was flung open, and on the threshold stood a tall figure, dark and distinct against the moonlit world beyond. His garments were of nondescript fashion, but his pose was not without grace. Under one arm he carried a fiddle, and the bow was in his hand. He raised it and waved it in a sort of benediction. "Give you greeting, ladies and gentlemen--and news besides. Monmouth has landed at Lyme, and all the West Country is aflame with rebellion." CHAPTER VI MAD MARTIN The sudden interruption served to relax the tension in the hall. There was the quick shuffling of feet, as though these men and women had suddenly been released from some power which had struck them motionless, and eager faces were turned towards the doorway. Barbara did not move. Her eyes were still fixed on Lord Rosmore's face, her arm was still outstretched to prevent a renewal of the fight. The man stood in the doorway for a moment with his bow raised, pleased, it seemed, with the sensation he had caused. He had spoken in rather a high-pitched voice, almost as if his words were set to a monotonous chant or had a poetic measure in them. "It is only that mad fool Martin Fairley," said Branksome. "What is this news?" Sir John asked. His anger seemed to have gone, and he spoke gently. "That depends," said Martin, advancing into the hall with a step which appeared to time itself with some unheard rhythm. "That depends on who it is who hears it. Good news for those who hate King James; bad for those who love priests and popery. How can such a mad fool as I am, Sir Philip Branksome, guess to which side so many gallant gentlemen and fair ladies may lean?" There was grace, and some mockery perhaps, in the low bow he made, his arms wide extended, the fiddle in one hand, the bow in the other; and then, slowly standing erect again, he appeared to notice Barbara for the first time. "Drawn swords!" he exclaimed, "and my lady of Aylingford between them. Another legend for the Abbey in the making--eh, Sir John? I must write a song upon it, or else Mr. Fellowes shall. If his sword is as facile as his pen, my Lord Rosmore, 'tis a marvel you are alive." "This fool annoys me, Sir John. I am not in the mood for jesting." "That, at least, is good news," said Martin, "for in this Monmouth affair there is no jest but real fighting to be done. Will you not save your strength for one side or the other?" "Peace, Martin," said Sir John. "We must hear more of this news of yours at once. And you, gentlemen, will you not put up your swords at my niece's request?" "I drew it to play a dishonourable part," said Fellowes. "I used it to defend a worthless life. Do you command its sheathing, Mistress Lanison?" "Yes," and she still looked at Lord Rosmore as she spoke.