As yet they had not visited a room whose door opened upon the southern quarter of the peristyle. Judging by its portal, it promised to be a greater chamber than any of the preceding, probably the banqueting or guest room. The door stood ajar, giving view of a frescoed wall within. Malt, who had waxed jovial since her communion with the tankard, pushed the door open, and went frankly into the half light of a great chamber. She came to an abrupt halt on the threshold, with a fat hand quavering the symbol of a cross in the air. The women crowded the doorway, and looked in over the cellaress's stout shoulders. In a gilded chair in the centre of the room sat the figure of a man. His hands were clenched upon the lion-headed arms of the siege, and his chin bowed down upon his breast. He was clad in purple; there were rings upon his fingers, and his brow was bound with a band of gold. At his feet crouched a great wolf-hound, motionless, dead. The women in the doorway stared on the scene in silence. The man in the chair might have been thought asleep save for a certain stark look--a bleak immobility that contradicted the possibility of life. Here they had stumbled on tragedy with a vengeance. The mute face of death lurked in the shadows, and the vast mystery of life seemed about them like a cold vapour. It was a sudden change from sunlight into shade. Igraine pushed past Malt, and ventured close to the crouching hound. Bending down, she looked into the dead man's face. It was pinched and grey, but young, none the less, and bearing even in death a certain sensuous haughtiness and dissolute beauty. The man had been dark, with hair turbulent and lustrous. In his bosom glinted the silver pommel of a knife, and there were stains upon cloak and tessellated pavement. Clasped in one hand was a small cross of gold that looked as though it had been plucked from a chain or necklet, and held gripped in the death agony. The wolf-hound had been thrust through the body with a sword. "Hum," said Malt, with a sniff,--"Christian work here. And a comely fellow, too--more's the pity. Look at the rings on his fingers; I wonder whether I might take one for prayer money? It would buy candles." Igraine was still looking at the dead man with strange awe in her heart. "Keep off," she said, thrusting off Malt; "the man has been stabbed." "Well, haven't I eyes too, hussy?" Claudia came in, white and quavering, with her crucifix up. "Poor wretch!" said she; "can't we bury him?" "Bury him!" cried Malt. "Yes, sister." "Thanks, no. It would spoil my dinner." Claudia gave a sudden scream, and jumped back, holding her skirts up. "There's blood on the floor! Holy mother! did the dog move?" "Move!" quoth Malt, giving the brute a kick; "what a mouse you are, Claudia." "Are you sure the man's dead?" "Dead, and cold," said Igraine, touching his cheek, and drawing away with a shiver. "Come away, the place makes my flesh creep. Shut the door, Malt. Let us leave him so."