ught!"

"Vengeance is a consuming fire!"

"So seek I vengeance!"

"O Martin Conisby, bethink you! Vengeance is but a sickness of the
mind--a wasting disease--"

"So seek I vengeance!"

"For him that questeth after vengeance this fair world can hold nought
beside."

"So give me vengeance, nought else seek I of this world!"

"Ah, poor soul--poor man that might be, so do I pity thee!"

"I seek no man's pity."

"But I am a woman, so shall I pity thee alway!"

Now as I prepared to climb through the lattice she, beholding the sword
where it yet lay, stooped and, taking it up, sheathed it. "This was
thine own once, I've heard," says she. "Take it, Martin Conisby, keep
it clean, free from dishonour and leave thy vengeance to God."

"Not so!" says I, shaking my head. "I have my knife, 'tis weapon
better suited to my rags!" So saying, I clambered out through the
lattice even as I had come. Being upon the terrace, I glanced up to
find her leaning to watch me and with the moon bright on her face.

"Live you for nought but vengeance?" she questioned softly.

"So aid me God!" says I.

"So shall I pity thee alway, Martin Conisby!" she repeated, and sighed,
and so was gone.

Then I turned, slow of foot, and went my solitary way.

CHAPTER X

HOW I SWORE TO THE BLOOD-BROTHERHOOD

I remember the moon was very bright as, reaching the end of a grassy
lane (or rather cart-track) I saw before me a small, snug-seeming
tavern with a board over the door, whereon were the words:

YE PECK OF MALT

BY

JOEL BYM.

And looking the place over, from trim, white steps before the door to
trim thatched roof, I marvelled at its air of prosperity; for here it
stood, so far removed from road and bye-road, so apparently away from
all habitation, and so lost and hid by trees (it standing within a
little copse) that it was great wonder any customer should ever find
his way hither.

The place was very quiet, not a light showed anywhere and the door was
fast shut, which was nothing strange, for the hour was late. Stepping
up to the door I knocked loudly thereon with my cudgel, at first
without effect, but having repeated the summons, a voice from within
hailed me gruffly:

"Who knocks?"

"'The Faithful Friend!'" says I. At this, the door swung suddenly open
and a lanthorn was thrust into my face, whereupon I fell back a step,
dazzled; then gradually, beyond this glare, I made out a dark shape
blocking the doorw