Across the wall, from the direction of the hills that showed dimly against the evening sky, there came a murmur, growing as he listened. The roads were hard from lack of rain, and he could distinguish the sound of horses, a great company; but rising above this was a dull roar of voices. Every moment it waxed, died once or twice, then sounded out nearer and louder. There was a barking of dogs, the cries of children, and now and again the snatch of a song or a shouted word or two. Of the group on the steps within not one stirred, except when Sir James slowly lowered his upraised hand; and so they waited. The company was drawing nearer now; and Chris calculated that they must be coming down the steep road that led from the town; and even as he thought it he heard the sound of hoofs on the bridge that crossed the Winterbourne. Dom Anthony pushed by him. “To the gate,” he said, and went down the step and across the court followed by the others. As they went the clamour grew loud and near in the road outside; and a ruddy light shone on the projecting turret of the gateway. Chris was conscious of extraordinary coolness now that the peril was on him; and he stared up at the studded oak doors, at the wicket cut in one of the leaves, and the sliding panel that covered the grill, with little thought but that of conjecture as to how long the destruction of the gate would take. The others, too, though he was scarcely aware of their presence, were silent and rigid at his side, as Dom Anthony stepped up to the closed grill and waited there for the summons. It came almost immediately. There was a great crescendo of sound as the party turned the corner, and a flare of light shone under the gate; then the sound of loud talking, a silence of the hoofs; and a sudden jangle on the bell overhead. The monk turned from the grill and lifted his hand. Then again the talking grew loud, as the mob swept round the corner after the horses. Still all was silent within. Chris felt his father’s hand seek his own a moment, and grip it; and then above the gabbling clamour a voice spoke distinctly outside. “Have the rats run, then?” The bell danced again over their heads; and there was a clatter of raps on the huge door. Dom Anthony slid back the shutter. * * * * * For a moment it was not noticed outside, for the entry was dark. Chris could catch a glimpse on either side of the monk’s head of a flare of light, but no more. Then the same voice spoke again, and with something of a foreign accent. “You are there, then; make haste and open.” Another voice shouted authoritatively for silence; and the clamour of tongues died. Dom Anthony waited until all was quiet, and then answered steadily. “Who are you?” There was an oath; the tumult began again, but hushed immediately, as the same voice that had called for admittance shouted aloud-- “Open, I tell you, you bloody monk! We come from the King.” “Why do you come?”