He strode out of the room and cried in a sharp voice: “Who’s there?” “John Fern, by your leave, sir.” The answer sang in muffled by the thick oak. “Are you tired of life, fellow?” “I am a humble dependent on your bounty, Mr. Tuke. I come with a flag of truce, trusting to your honour.” “I have none for vermin. We may shoot such sitting.” “Be generous, sir. We are trapped. Frost and starvation have worked for you.” “I am beholden to them. They are good agents of retribution.” “Will you not be merciful? We surrender at discretion.” “You are too late in coming to it.” “For the love of God, sir, take me in and hear me!” The gentleman hesitated and pondered. Were the man in truth alone, he could not see what ruse might be designed. His tale, too, was probable enough. Baulked in their outrageous plot at the very outset, what likelihood was there that the improvident scoundrels would have calculated against such a contingency as the present one? “Wait!” he called suddenly, “and I will consider.” He whispered his man to stand rigidly on guard, and, going softly, ascended the stairs to an upper room that would command view of the porch at an angle. Here cautiously he unbarred and opened the shutters and looked forth. The closing dusk played like smoke on the great snow-heaps that stretched all about the house and to the opening of the drive to his right, where a billowy rampart of whiteness marked the termination of the path cut by the besiegers. Thence, to the front-door, an irregular slur in the frozen carpet betokened the further passage to the house forced by his visitor below, whose broad squat figure he could distinguish set squarely in the shadow of the porch. Elsewhere there was no sign of life or movement. Dead winter reigned in the fields of fallen snow, in the stony sky, in the stark and sapless branches of the trees. The man was alone, as he had stated, and beyond the immediate reach of his comrades. He descended swiftly to the hall once more. The faithful William stood at cock as he had left him. “Are you there?” he cried. “I am here, sir.” “I will let you in. A twitch of treachery, and you get a bullet in your brain.” “Mr. Tuke--you can trust me!” He inside unhitched the fastenings--snapped key and bolts. “Cover him, Will,” he said, and swung open the door. Mr. Fern walked in with a very humble obeisance. A white down of many days’ growth bristled villainously on his chin. He looked battered and unkempt, but not ill-nourished for a starving man. The door re-locked and made secure: “Go before into that room,” said Tuke, “and remember that you tread on glass, sir.” “I make no protest, Mr. Tuke. I assume your action guarantees me a safe-conduct, and that the fact that the muzzle of your servant’s piece actually touches my head argues no base intent on his part.” “He is fairly efficient with his weapon, sir. I warn you he answers to the prick of discipline. Shoot this man at sight, William, if he attempts to move.”