They entered the court through the gateway in the Barbican tower. Instantly the gates slammed behind them, the portcullis fell, and, as by magic, the windows and courtyard were crowded with men in green jerkins with bended bows. “What means this outrage,” cried Hubert aloud, “upon the heir of Walderne as he enters his own castle?” “That you are in the power of the merrie men of the greenwood. If you be Drogo of Walderne, surrender, and spare bloodshed: all who have never harmed us to go free.” “Then are we all free. My men are from Kenilworth, and can never have harmed you in word or deed. As for Drogo, he fell by my hand this day in fair combat.” “Who art thou, then?” “Hubert, son of Roger of Walderne, and I seek my brother Martin—Friar Martin—whom you all must know.” Instantly every hostile demonstration ceased. The doors were thrown open, and the men who, a moment before, were about to fly at each other’s throats, mingled freely as friends. “Martin is below,” they said. “Have you smiths who can force a door?” “Lead me to him. HERE IS THE KEY.” Down the steps they flew, almost tumbling over each other in their eagerness. The key was applied, the rusty bolt flew back, and Hubert was clasped in Martin’s arms. For a long while the spectators of this joyful meeting waited in the courtyard of the castle, which was thronged by men who had only been restrained by a merciful Providence from bending their deadly weapons against each other. Now their thoughts were thoughts of peace, yet they hardly understood why and wherefore. But after a while there was a commotion in the great hall, and soon Martin stood on the summit of the steps, worn and pale, leaning on the stout shoulders of Hubert. Their eyes were both swimming in tears—but tears of joy. Cheers and acclamations rent the air, and it was a long while ere silence was restored for the voice of the late prisoner to be heard. “Men and brethren, I thank you for your great love to me, and for the desire wherewith ye have desired my freedom, and jeopardised your own precious lives in its cause. And now, if I am welcome”—(loud cheers)—“so must be my dear brother Hubert, Lord of Walderne by the will of the Lady Sybil, a true knight, a warrior of the Cross, and a friend of the poor.” (Loud cheers again). “Many of you will remember the night when he parted from you, when Sir Nicholas, who is gone, introduced him to you as his undoubted heir, and many have grieved over him, and said, ‘Full forty fathom deep he lies.’ But here he is in flesh and blood!” (Renewed cheers).