They could see Isoult under the yew tree, and Fulk standing in his harness by the water’s edge, and looking more like an enemy than a friend. Knollys’ face darkened. He spoke sharply to Cavendish, who set his horse beside him. “Somehow, I smell blood here. And I see no boat.” He looked across at Fulk, who had not moved, but waited there as though ready to fight any man who should seek to land. Knollys dismounted, and, climbing down the bank, stepped on to Merlin’s craft that lay among the flags and sedges. It was solid enough, and the rough paddles were there just as the men had left them, but Knollys stepped ashore again and called Cavendish to him. “Something has flown askew here. Unbuckle this harness of mine. I am going over on this noble ship and may have to swim for it. The lad over yonder looks as though he were in a white rage and ready to fight all Christendom.” He left his sword and armour with Cavendish, put on his cote-hardie, and, calling two unarmed servants down to the water, bade them take the paddles and ferry him over. It was a slow and a devious passage, the raft doing its best to spin in a circle, for the paddles were clumsy tools. Knollys stood with his feet well apart on the tree-trunks, watching Fulk with increasing curiosity. “Hold there! Sir Robert Knollys, let those fellows of yours keep their places. I will speak with you—alone.” His hands were on the hilt of his sword, his head held high, his eyes dangerous. Knollys sprang ashore. “What game is this that you are playing, my friend?” “If you had come armed you would not have set foot here. Tell those fellows to keep their places.” “Come, come, lad.” “Knollys, there is a devil in me. Beware! I have looked murder and treachery in the eyes. I trust no man this morning.” “These are strange words.” “Are they, by God! If you would see dead men—come hither.” He turned sharply, and strode off towards the house, Knollys following him with a face that was growing grim. In the porch dead men and faggots were still jumbled together, and the stones were crusted with blood. Knollys stared. “Whose men are these?” “You shall see.” He led him into the hall where Merlin lay, and stood pointing with his sword. “Dost know that hound, Knollys?” “No, by my God!” “Look closer. Whose ring is that—there, on the crooked hand?” Knollys stooped, and then straightened, as though dumbfounded. “The King’s ring!” “Even so—the King’s ring. And these were the King’s men, these footpads and brothel-sweepings led by that damned priest. We fought and beat them, and they tried to burn the house about us. And this grey hound carried the King’s ring. Strange happenings, Knollys! Stranger still, who was it that betrayed us?” Knollys started round with a face like thunder. “Fulk Ferrers, you speak as though you charged me with this.”