it was martin valliant who prayed for the soul of gilbert dale, and not mellis his sister.

she was bitter and fierce, and wounded.

“i will not ask god or the saints for anything—no, nor mother mary. my brother had no sin

upon him. let them look to their own.”

so martin tolled the bell, lit candles, and chanted a death mass, yet all the while he was

thinking of the rebel woman out yonder and of the despair in her eyes. nature was striking

shrewd blows at martin’s simplicity, using the lecherous treachery of geraint and the

bloody heartlessness of the lord of troy to prove to him that there are great violences on

earth, lusts and cruelties and loves that no mere saint can conquer. even mellis’s wild

words of revolt sounded more real and human than the patter of his prayers. he knelt a long

while in silence, wondering, asking himself grim questions. how would his father, old

valliant, have acted? would he have put up a prayer, or donned harness and taken the sword?

mellis would not enter the chapel or kneel before the altar. she went wandering over the

moor, recklessly, with that fever of anguish and hatred burning in her blood. she wanted to

hurt those men who had killed her brother. she wanted to take the lord of troy and give him

to some strong man to be throttled. all the love and tenderness that were in her were like

perfumes thrown upon the flames.

wearied at last, she came back to the great cross, passed under its shadow, and entering

the rest-house, lay down upon her bed. the room was cool and silent, with its massive walls

of stone and thickly thatched roof, and not a sound disturbed her; but she could neither

sleep nor rest because of the knowledge of the peril that threatened her. mellis felt

herself betrayed, hunted, and her instincts warned her that she would be shown no mercy.

she did not believe that her brother’s death had come about casually, or that he had been

stabbed wantonly or in error. the shadow of troy castle loomed over her. she was fey that

morning; the forest whispered a warning.

about noon martin valliant took his spade and went out to dig in the garden. he was shy of

mellis, shy of her despair, and the new manhood that had been born in him chafed and raged

at the vows that held it. the blood of old roger valliant was alive in him; he was more the

son of his father than he knew.

the garden hedge shut martin in upon himself, and he could see nothing of the moor, so that

one of noble vance’s archers was able to come scouting right to the foot of the great

cross and creep away again unnoticed. the fellow went back to a heathy hollow where the

forest warden waited, sitting on his black horse in the sun.

“the woman is there, lording. i saw her in the doorway of the rest-house.”

“and the monk?”

“i heard the sound of a spade in the garden.”

“good. now listen to me, you men. there is no cause to be too gentle with the jade; they

say she is a fierce wench, and may carry a knife, and a knife in an angry woman’s hands is

not to be despised.”

“will you take her, or shall we, lording?”

“we’ll see what we shall see.”

martin valliant was just turning a new spit when he heard a sound that made him raise his

head and listen. a horse was moving somewhere; he heard the thudding of hoofs and the

jingle of a bridle. the horse came on at a canter, and a man’s voice shouted an order.

“a view—a view! run, jack; head her off, or she’ll have the door shut in our faces.”

then martin heard mellis cry out.

“martin valliant—martin valliant!”

something seemed to twist itself in his head and snap like a broken bowstring. he plucked

his spade out of the ground and went running, his nostrils agape, his eyes hard as blue

glass.

and this was what martin saw when he pushed through the gate and rounded the corner of the

thorn hedge. mellis had her back to the wall of the rest-house, and a light dagger in her

hand. a man in red was sucking a bloody wrist, and two archers were crouching behind him

like dogs waiting to be let loose.

martin saw the man in red raise the butt of his riding whip and strike at mellis, shouting

savagely:

“break the jade—break her!”

then martin valliant went mad. he was no more than the male thing answering the wild call

of its mate. he saw noble vance’s whip strike mellis’s arm.

it was all over in twenty seconds, for that spade was a grim weapon whirled like a battle-

ax by old valliant’s son. the two archers had stood and gaped, too astonished to think of

bending a bow. one of them, indeed, had plucked out a knife, but he was dead before he

could use it.

vance the forest warden lay all huddled up, grinning horribly, gashed to the brain pulp.

the other archer had taken to his heels, mounted his master’s horse, and galloped off with

the fear of god in him. and martin valliant was standing leaning on his spade, his face

deathly white, his eyes staring at the dead men on the grass.