e thud of blows. A man when hard beset for his life
has no breath to spare for either oath of despair or shout of triumph.
But not for long were the scales to swing so evenly; presently the ranks
of the Stockaders yielded again to the pressure and broke into separate
groups. Then were to be heard the groans of the wounded and dying; then
for the first time the yell of the Doomsmen broke forth, ear-piercing in
its exultancy.

Constans had managed to reach the shelter of the Great House, half
dragging, half carrying the fainting form of his sister. Already Sir
Gavan, with Tennant and the house-servants, were under arms and making
what preparations they could for the final stand. A hopeless task it
seemed, for the outlaws were now in full possession of the rest of the
keep. The retainers occupying the general quarters in the south barracks
had fallen easy victims. Surprised, out-numbered, and poorly armed, they
had been quickly cut down as they reached the court-yard, and active
resistance to the invaders was at an end.

Now the attack was turned directly upon the entrance to the Great House,
and Sir Gavan, with his handful of followers, waited on the threshold
for the inevitable issue. Already the ponderous door of iron-banded oak
was groaning and splintering under the hail of blows. And in the
forefront, with a laugh upon his lips, hewed Quinton Edge.

The barrier was down at last and the wolves were free to fall upon their
quarry. A score of men, all told, against a hundred; the outcome was
hardly doubtful. Yet it was not Gavan of the Greenwood Keep who held up
his hand in sign of parley, but the Doomsman, Quinton Edge.

"The maiden Issa," he said, speaking with a smooth insolence that made
Constans set his teeth. "Give her safely to my hand and your goods and
your lives shall go free of further damage. A cheap bargain; but speak
quickly, old man, these hounds of mine are not to be held in leash for
long."

The partisans on either side had fallen back, leaving the two leaders
face to face. Sir Gavan plucked twice at his throat, where the veins
stood out like cords, constricting the vocal passages so that he
stuttered thickly as he spoke.

"This--this gallows-scape!" he stammered. "This burner of peasants'
hayricks, this pitiful plunderer of hen-roosts and cattle byres! If it
were a man, now--to nail the insult to his lips----"

"We lose time," interrupted the Doomsman. "I have named my price."

"The price--ah,