So soon as Sir Crispin had taken his departure, and whilst yet the beat of his horse's hoofs was to be distinguished above the driving storm of rain and wind without, Joseph hastened across the hall to the servants' quarters. There he found his four grooms slumbering deeply, their faces white and clammy, and their limbs twisted into odd, helpless attitudes. Vainly did he rain down upon them kicks and curses; arouse them he could not from the stupor in whose thrall they lay. And so, seizing a lanthorn, he passed out to the stables, whence Crispin had lately taken his best nag, and with his own hands he saddled a horse. His lips were screwed into a curious smile--a smile that still lingered upon them when presently he retraced his steps to the room where his brother sat with Kenneth. In his absence the lad had dressed Gregory's wound; he had induced him to take a little wine, and had set him upon a chair, in which he now lay back, white and exhausted. “The quarter of an hour is passed, sir,” said Joseph coldly, as he entered. Kenneth made no sign that he heard. He sat on like a man in a dream. His eyes that saw nothing were bent upon Gregory's pale, flabby face. “The quarter of an hour is passed, sir,” Joseph repeated in a louder voice. Kenneth looked up, then rose and sighed, passing his hand wearily across his forehead. “I understand, sir,” he replied in a low voice. “You mean that I must go?” Joseph waited a moment before replying. Then: “It is past midnight,” he said slowly, “and the weather is wild. You may lie here until morning, if you are so minded. But go you must then,” he added sternly. “I need scarce say, sir, that you must have no speech with Mistress Cynthia, nor that never again must you set foot within Castle Marleigh.” “I understand, sir; I understand. But you deal hardly with me.” Joseph raised his eyebrows in questioning surprise. “I was the victim of my oath, given when I knew not against whom my hand was to be lifted. Oh, sir, am I to suffer all my life for a fault that was not my own? You, Master Gregory,” he cried, turning passionately to Cynthia's father, “you are perchance more merciful? You understand my position--how I was forced into it.” Gregory opened his heavy eyes. “A plague on you, Master Stewart,” he groaned. “I understand that you have given me a wound that will take a month to heal.” “It was an accident, sir. I swear it was an accident!” “To swear this and that appears to be your chief diversion in life,” growled Gregory for answer. “You had best go; we are not likely to listen to excuses.” “Did you rather suggest a remedy,” Joseph put in quietly, “we might hear you.” Kenneth swung round and faced him, hope brightening his eyes. “What remedy is there? How can I undo what I have done? Show me but the way, and I'll follow it, no matter where it leads!”