t hands were gripping the throat of Sir James.

Montacute's face was purple. His eyes seemed to be starting from
their sockets. It was hard to say which was the more terrible face,
his or that of Tom, which was perfectly white, and set in lines of
ferocity and hatred as though petrified into stone.

In the doorway stood the figure of a tall monk, clad in the long
white robe and black cloak of his order. Behind him was another,
similarly attired, holding the light above his head.

The first stepped quietly forward, and laid a hand upon Tom's
shoulder; and something in the touch made the young man turn his
head to meet the calm, authoritative glance bent upon him.

"Enough, my son, enough," he said, in quiet tones, that brooked,
however, no contradiction. "Let the man go."

Had the followers of Montacute sought to loose his clasp by force,
Tom would have crushed the life from his victim without a qualm;
but at this gentle word of command he instantly loosed his hold,
and stood upright before the monk.

"He drove me to it--his blood be upon his own head! He would have
scourged me to death, I verily believe, had it not been that the
rafter gave way."

Tom spoke English, for he had been addressed in that language, and
so knew that he should be understood. The monk bent his head, as
though he grasped the entire situation.

"I would we had come in time to spare you what you have already
suffered, my son. But we did only enter the doors as the fall of
the rafter announced that some catastrophe had happened. I feared
to find you already a corpse."

"You came after me, good father?" asked Tom in amaze.

"Yes, truly. Your companion, who is safe over the other pass by
this time, caused the message to reach us that you were like to
fall into the hands of Montacute, and be hanged or shot. He begged
that if we could we would save you; and as our work lies in
succouring those who are in peril upon these heights, be that peril
what it may, we have been seeking you ever since. I would we had
arrived a few minutes earlier."

Tom's eyes gleamed; it seemed to him as though the madness was not
yet out of his blood.

"I can scarce echo that wish, reverend father," he said; "for I
have had my taste of joy! If my back be torn and scored, I have had
my fingers on yon miscreant's throat. I think he will carry the
marks of them as long as I shall carry my scars. I have had my
recompense!"

"Peace, my son," said the monk, lifting