All was alarm and confusion. The few defenders of the castle were overpowered and slain, for the gross treachery practised upon the “merrie men” a few days earlier had hardened their hearts and rendered them deaf to the call for pity or mercy. The few women who were in the castle fled shrieking to their hiding places. The men died fighting.
“To the dungeons! Show us the way to the dungeons, and we give you your life,” cried their leader—Kynewulf—to an individual whose bunch of keys attached to his girdle showed his office.
“The friar is safe below, unhurt. I will take you to him. But I have no key.”
“Where is it, then?”
“Sir Drogo has taken it with him.”
“We will have it open.
“Friar Martin, art thou within?”
“Safe and uninjured. Is it thou, Kynewulf? Then I charge thee that thou do no hurt to any here. They have not injured me.”
“Not injured thee, to place thee here! Well, we will soon have thee out. We have promised Grimbeard to bring thee to him, or forfeit our lives. He is dying.”
“Dying! And I not there! What has chanced?”