a little while returned, and softly opened the
wicket panel in the door a little way, and looked forth into the
roaring darkness of rain and wind.

'Think you, Sir Falk,' he said, going to the porter, 'that the witches
from the woods of Denn do send their baleful fires on such a night as
this to lead poor houseless wretches into the marsh below the wall?'

The porter laughed.

'Thou'rt over-full of fancies to-night, young sir,' he said. 'Have no
fear of witches. We're all safe and sound here till the blessed
daylight comes, and none need stir out till then.'

'Methought I saw a flash in the dark but now,' said Owen, 'as if 'twas
the gleam of a sword or a wandering marsh fire.'

'Not a doubt 'twas but a lightning flash,' returned the porter. 'Now go
ye, for I hear the king moving towards bed. Sleep soundly, lad; no need
to fear this night.'

In a little while the palace was sunk in darkness, and in silence save
for the smothered cries of sleepers in their dreams. Outside, the rain
still sobbed at the eaves, and the wind beat at the narrow casements.
Time passed, and for all his weariness young Owen could not sleep.

His spirit had been heavy all the day, and vague and dreadful fears had
haunted him. Something told him that the life of the beloved king, who
had taken him from the foul and cruel power of Sir Turquine, was
threatened. He rose in the dark from his pallet of straw in the hall
where lay the other pages, and stole softly out. He would make his way
to the king's door, and, wrapped in his cloak, would lie before it.

He felt his way softly along the corridor in the deep darkness.
Suddenly he stopped. Something alive was near him in the dark. Even as
he turned, a hand seized him by the throat, and a hateful voice which
he knew growled in his ear:

'Lead us to the king's room, or this shall sink in thy heart!'

He knew at once that all his fears of the day and the night had been
true. He had indeed heard the stealthy footsteps before the door of the
hall, and had seen the dull gleam of a sword in the hand of one of
those who lay in wait to murder the king.

'Speak!' said the voice again. 'Is the king's room backward or
forward?'

'I will not tell thee!' he gasped, and heard a low mocking laugh.

''Tis thee, my caitiff boy!' sneered Sir Turquine, for he it was. 'Then
this for thee!'

With the words he thrust his dagger into the body of the struggling
boy, who swooned and dropped to the floor.

In