"Ay--I mind him now," said Peter, peering eagerly forth. "I saw his brother, the Earl Thomas, led to the block at York, after Towton field--'tis nine years sine. There was a witch who then foretold that those three ripe-red roundels of the Courtenays were blood spots from three brothers' hearts, and all should die under the axe." A stranger's voice, close behind them, took up their talk. "My father saw the second brother, Earl Henry, beheaded at Salisbury four years later--and men called then to mind this same bloody prophecy--to the end that the Lord John fled the realm. Look where he walks, with bowed head and face o'er-cast--a fateful man! Belike the axe's edge is whetted for him, even now." He who spoke thus, with a shivering sigh to close his speech, was young and of slight form--clad from sole to crown in plain and dulled plate-harness. His uplifted visor framed a face of small features and soft lines, with saddened eyes. He had stepped aside into the gateway unnoted by the two, and stood now at the Sacristan's elbow, gazing forth as gloomily as ever affrighted monk might do. Peter glanced him briefly over, and sniffed disdain. "I know you not, young sir," he said, with curtness, "and offer no offence. But I have seen stout fighting in my time--and were you kin of mine, into to-morrow's battle you should not stir, with witches' babble sickening your thoughts, and dead men's bones in your eyes. Hearten yourself, I conjure you!" That monk should bear himself thus masterfully toward warrior startled Hugh for the moment, until he recalled that old Peter had on occasion browbeaten even the Sub-Prior himself, and reflected that this Knight seemed very young. The stranger made no reply, but kept his anxious gaze fastened upon the scene without. Then, with a sudden little shudder which rattled swiftly like an echo through his armor, he lifted his head upright, and tossed the end of his cloak across his shoulder. "The streets are strange to me," he said proudly. "If you are so minded, walk with me upon them. No harm shall befall you!" His beckoning hand summoned from the outer shadows two tall old men-at-arms, in bull's-hide jackets and bearing pikes. "Fare ye close upon our heels, Wilkin and Ashman," the Knight commanded. The monk and scrivener-lad took instant counsel of glances, and without a word walked beside their new companion--forth from the calm haven of Mother Church into the rude turbulence of murderous civil war. Pressing tight together, the five made their way across the green and into Church Street. To their left, above the black roofs of the Abbey mills, the sunset sky was glowing with laced bars of blood and sulphur, overhung by a pall of lead. Before them, the narrow street lay dark beneath the shadows of projecting roofs and swollen galleries.