He turned aside from the town and breasted the steep hill that
led to Littledean.

Windybank had not walked through the town with his ears shut, although
he had studiously kept his eyes lowered. More than once he had heard
the name of his rival mentioned, and each time the speaker's tones had
expressed admiration and affection. The angry young gentleman knew
nothing of Morgan's exploit, but the local gossips had seen the
forester pass through, and one had succeeded in getting an account of
the morning's affray. Johnnie was more than ever a popular hero. It
was unfortunate, perhaps, for Dorothy and her rival suitors that
Morgan's arm and Windybank's pride had both been wounded on the same
morning. The rejected lover had always envied and hated Morgan because
of his popularity; the events of the morning were rapidly turning that
hatred into a sort of malevolent frenzy. His heart burned with rage
and jealousy as he went rapidly homewards.

Now, a man's heart will sometimes be attuned to goodness, and his whole
nature, being aglow with conscious virtue, will yearn for some outlet
for the kindliness that wells up within him. None is offered, and the
virtuous fountain trickles itself dry, and no one is a whit the wiser
or better. Anon, the same heart breeds envy, hatred, malice, and all
uncharitableness, and straightway comes the chance of working evil.
The temptation is great, the opportunity is eagerly seized, and
wickedness is done; it is so easy to step into the "broad way," so
difficult to find footing in the "strait and narrow path."

Andrew Windybank was not a good man, but apt opportunity led him
farther astray than, in the depths of his heart, he ever intended to
go. His feet were treading the paths of his own domains. His
ancestral home, Dean Tower, raised its dark red walls before him. Some
of the bitterness was gone from his thoughts. Visions of the wealth,
wherein he was superior to his rival and the maiden who had flouted his
advances, were easing the wounds in his pride.

A spare figure, garbed in black, stepped from behind a clump of bushes,
and stood bareheaded in the pathway.

"God be with thee, Master Windybank, and St. James be thine aid!"
exclaimed a harsh voice. Basil confronted him.

Windybank's first feeling was one of annoyance. Basil and his master,
Father Jerome, had visited Dean Tower before, and although they had
come and gone in secret and by night, yet some suspicion of the