"Baldwin," said the knight when the door was shut, and the two were alone, "you are to dismiss to their homes all the tenants--who have indeed been called out without my orders. Bid them go and keep the peace, and I hope they will not be molested. For you and Father Carey, you must go into hiding. The Mere Farm will be best." "And what of you, Sir Anthony?" the steward asked, amazed at this act of folly. "I shall remain here," the knight replied with dignity. "You will be taken," said Baldwin, after a pause. "Very well," said the knight. The man shrugged his shoulders, and was silent. "What do you mean?" asked Sir Anthony in anger. "Why, just that I cannot do it," Baldwin answered, glowering at him with a flush on his dark cheek. "That is what I mean. Let the priest go. I cannot go, and will not." "Then you will be hanged!" quoth the knight warmly. "You have been in arms against the Queen, you fool! You will be hanged as sure as you stay here!" "Then I shall be hanged," replied the steward sullenly. "There never was a Cludde hanged yet without one to keep him company. To hear of it would make my grandsire turn in his grave out there. I dare not do it, Sir Anthony, and that is the fact. But for the rest I will do as you bid me." And he had his way. But never had evening fallen more strangely and sadly at Coton before. The rain pattered drearily in the courtyard. The drawbridge, by Baldwin's order, had been pulled up, and the planks over the moat in the rear removed. "They shall not steal upon us again!" he muttered. "And if we must surrender, they shall see we do it willingly."