food had crossed their lips since they had
been taken. The Butcher had commanded them to join his garrison and to
shoot upon their comrades from the wall. When they refused he had set
aside three of them for execution.

The others had been dragged to the cellar, whither the leering tyrant
had followed them. Only one question he had asked them, whether they
were of a hot-blooded nature or of a cold. Blows were showered upon them
until they answered. Three had said cold, and had been condemned to the
torment of the fire. The rest who had said hot were delivered up to the
torture of the water-cask. Every few hours this man or fiend had come
down to exult over their sufferings and to ask them whether they were
ready yet to enter his service. Three had consented and were gone. But
the others had all of them stood firm, two of them even to their death.

Such was the tale to which Nigel and his comrades listened whilst
they waited impatiently for the coming of Knolles and his men. Many
an anxious look did they cast down the black tunnel, but no glimmer of
light and no clash of steel came from its depths. Suddenly, however, a
loud and measured sound broke upon their ears. It was a dull metallic
clang, ponderous and slow, growing louder and ever louder--the tread of
an armored man. The poor wretches round the fire, all unnerved by hunger
and suffering, huddled together with wan, scared faces, their eyes fixed
in terror on the door.

"It is he!" they whispered. "It is the Butcher himself!"

Nigel had darted to the door and listened intently. There were no
footfalls save those of one man. Once sure of that, he softly turned
the key in the lock. At the same instant there came a bull's bellow from
without.

"Ives! Bertrand!" cried the voice. "Can you not hear me coming, you
drunken varlets? You shall cool your own heads in the water-casks, you
lazy rascals! What, not even now! Open, you dogs. Open, I say!"

He had thrust down the latch, and with a kick he flung the door wide
and rushed inward. For an instant he stood motionless, a statue of dull
yellow metal, his eyes fixed upon the empty casks and the huddle of
naked men. Then with the roar of a trapped lion, he turned, but the door
had slammed behind him, and Black Simon, with grim figure and sardonic
face, stood between.

The Butcher looked round him helplessly, for he was unarmed save for his
dagger. Then his eyes fell upon Nigel's roses.

"You are a gentleman of coat-a