The Brethren. Генри Райдер Хаггард

she answered. “Oh, I think there is more in this than any of us dream.

      “I think,” she added in a voice of distress and with an involuntary wringing motion of the hands, “that for this house and those who dwell in it time is big with death, and that sharp-eyed palmer is its midwife. How strange is the destiny that wraps us all about! And now comes the sword of Saladin to shape it, and the hand of Saladin to drag me from my peaceful state to a dignity which I do not seek; and the dreams of Saladin, of whose kin I am, to interweave my life with the bloody policies of Syria and the unending war between Cross and Crescent, that are, both of them, my heritage.” Then, with a woeful gesture, Rosamund turned and left them.

      Her father watched her go, and said:

      “The maid is right. Great business is afoot in which all of us must bear our parts. For no little thing would Saladin stir thus—he who braces himself as I know well, for the last struggle in which Christ or Mahomet must go down. Rosamund is right. On her brow shines the crescent diadem of the house of Ayoub, and at her heart hangs the black cross of the Christian and round her struggle creeds and nations. What, Wulf, does the man sleep already?”

      “Like a dog, for he seems outworn with travel.”

      “Like a dog with one eye open, perhaps. I do not wish that he should give us the slip during the night, as I want more talk with him and other things, of which I have spoken to Godwin.”

      “No fear of that, uncle. I have locked the stable door, and a sainted palmer will scarcely leave us the present of such a mule.”

      “Not he, if I know his tribe,” answered Sir Andrew. “Now let us sup and afterwards take counsel together, for we shall need it before all is done.”

      An hour before the dawn next morning Godwin and Wulf were up, and with them certain trusted men who had been warned that their services would be needed. Presently Wulf, bearing a lantern in his hand, came to where his brother stood by the fire in the hall.

      “Where have you been?” Godwin asked. “To wake the palmer?”

      “No. To place a man to watch the road to Steeple Hill, and another at the Creek path; also to feed his mule, which is a very fine beast—too good for a palmer. Doubtless he will be stirring soon, as he said that he must be up early.”

      Godwin nodded, and they sat together on the bench beside the fire, for the weather was bitter, and dozed till the dawn began to break. Then Wulf rose and shook himself, saying:

      “He will not think it uncourteous if we rouse him now,” and walking to the far end of the hall, he drew a curtain and called out, “Awake, holy Nicholas! awake! It is time for you to say your prayers, and breakfast will soon be cooking.”

      But no Nicholas answered.

      “Of a truth,” grumbled Wulf, as he came back for his lantern, “that palmer sleeps as though Saladin had already cut his throat.” Then having lit it, he returned to the guest place.

      “Godwin,” he called presently, “come here. The man has gone!”

      “Gone?” said Godwin as he ran to the curtain. “Gone where?”

      “Back to his friend Saladin, I think,” answered Wulf. “Look, that is how he went.” And he pointed to the shutter of the sleeping-place, that stood wide open, and to an oaken stool beneath, by means of which the sainted Nicholas had climbed up to and through the narrow window slit.

      “He must be without, grooming the mule which he would never have left,” said Godwin.

      “Honest guests do not part from their hosts thus,” answered Wulf; “but let us go and see.”

      So they ran to the stable and found it locked and the mule safe enough within. Nor—though they looked—could they find any trace of the palmer—not even a footstep, since the ground was frostbound. Only on examining the door of the stable they discovered that an attempt had been made to lift the lock with some sharp instrument.

      “It seems that he was determined to be gone, either with or without the beast,” said Wulf. “Well, perhaps we can catch him yet,” and he called to the men to saddle up and ride with him to search the country.

      For three hours they hunted far and wide, but nothing did they see of Nicholas.

      “The knave has slipped away like a night hawk, and left as little trace,” reported Wulf. “Now, my uncle, what does this mean?”

      “I do not know, save that it is of a piece with the rest, and that I like it little,” answered the old knight anxiously. “Here the value of the beast was of no account, that is plain. What the man held of account was that he should be gone in such a fashion that none could follow him or know whither he went. The net is about us, my nephews, and I think that Saladin draws its string.”

      Still less pleased would Sir Andrew have been, could he have seen the palmer Nicholas creeping round the hall while all men slept, ere he girded up his long gown and ran like a hare for London. Yet he had done this by the light of the bright stars, taking note of every window slit in it, more especially of those of the solar; of the plan of the outbuildings also, and of the path that ran to Steeple Creek some five hundred yards away.

      From that day forward fear settled on the place—fear of some blow that none were able to foresee, and against which they could not guard. Sir Andrew even talked of leaving Steeple and of taking up his abode in London, where he thought that they might be safer, but such foul weather set in that it was impossible to travel the roads, and still less to sail the sea. So it was arranged that if they moved at all—and there were many things against it, not the least of which were Sir Andrew’s weak health and the lack of a house to go to—it should not be till after New Year’s Day.

      Thus the time went on, and nothing happened to disturb them. The friends of whom the old knight took counsel laughed at his forebodings. They said that so long as they did not wander about unguarded, there was little danger of any fresh attack upon them, and if one should by chance be made, with the aid of the men they had they could hold the Hall against a company until help was summoned. Moreover, at heart, none of them believed that Saladin or his emissaries would stir in this business before the spring, or more probably until another year had passed. Still, they always set guards at night, and, besides themselves, kept twenty men sleeping at the Hall. Also they arranged that on the lighting of a signal fire upon the tower of Steeple Church their neighbours should come to succour them.

      So the time went on towards Christmas, before which the weather changed and became calm, with sharp frost.

      It was on the shortest day that Prior John rode up to the Hall and told them that he was going to Southminster to buy some wine for the Christmas feast. Sir Andrew asked what wine there was at Southminster. The Prior answered that he had heard that a ship, laden amongst other things with wine of Cyprus of wonderful quality, had come into the river Crouch with her rudder broken. He added that as no shipwrights could be found in London to repair it till after Christmas, the chapman, a Cypriote, who was in charge of the wine, was selling as much as he could in Southminster and to the houses about at a cheap rate, and delivering it by means of a wain that he had hired.

      Sir Andrew replied that this seemed a fair chance to get fine liquor, which was hard to come by in Essex in those times. The end of it was that he bade Wulf, whose taste in strong drink was nice, to ride with the Prior into Southminster, and if he liked the stuff to buy a few casks of it for them to make merry with at Christmas—although he himself, because of his ailments, now drank only water.

      So Wulf went, nothing loth. In this dark season of the year when there was no fishing, it grew very dull loitering about the Hall, and since he did not read much, like Godwin, sitting for long hours by the fire at night watching Rosamund going to and fro upon her tasks, but not speaking with her overmuch. For notwithstanding all their pretense of forgetfulness, some sort of veil had fallen between the brethren and Rosamund, and their intercourse was not so open and familiar as of old. She could not but remember that they were no more her cousins only, but