The Baron stood on one side, his arms bound to his side, one moment cursing under his breath, and the next assuming a stolid indifference as he watched one after another of his possessions thrown on the bonfire, and disappear in a pillar of flame. Suddenly some fellows created a new diversion by making a cross-piece of two lances, and rigging it up with a huge pile of fineries which had been dragged from one of the chests. This they dressed in a surcoat of tyretain furred with the skins of many martens, throwing over it a long mantle of velvet, lined with ermine, and surmounting the whole with a magnificent scarlet hat with a large white plume nodding from it, and a great clasp of gold in the very front. Then, standing at a distance from this effigy, the men gleefully riddled it with arrows. Tiring of this sport, some one snatched a burning brand from the fire and flung it, showering sparks in every direction, upon the roof of the Manor House. Instantly more brands were thrown on by other willing hands, and the house was soon roaring so fiercely that the men had to give way before it.
"Fellows, this is the man who has undone by force our lovely Rose Westel, the handsomest maid in Cambridgeshire."
A strange light came into de Leaufort's eyes. Could this be, after all, but a woman's revenge?
A hoarse shout arose from a hundred throats.
"Throw him back into his own house."
"It will give him a warm enough welcome."
"Off with his head."
"We will bear it with us to Blackheath and set it up there that all may know who are the masters of England."
The Baron closed his eyes and calmly awaited the fatal stroke which he knew could not be long delayed.
It came; but notwithstanding its perfect aim, it did not strike de Leaufort, but sent a jet of hot blood from the white kerchief of a woman who had rushed from the darkness to fling her arms about him.