“Nay, nay, our master needs no more!” cried one, with a hoarse laugh. “Stand back, mistress, whoever you be! The house is shut, and our lord sees no guests to-night.”
“Fellow,” said Nigel, speaking low and clear, “stand back from us! Our errand is with your master.”
“Bethink you, my children,” cried the old priest, “would it not be best perchance, that I go in to him and see whether the voice of the Church may not soften this hard heart? I fear bloodshed if you enter.”
“Nay, father, I pray you to stay here for the nonce,” said Nigel. “And you, Mary, do you bide with the good priest, for we know not what may be within.”
Again he turned to the door, and again the two men barred his passage.
“Stand back, I say, back for your lives!” said Nigel. “By Saint Paul! I should think it shame to soil my sword with such as you, but my soul is set, and no man shall bar my path this night.”
The men shrank from the deadly menace of that gentle voice.
“Hold!” said one of them, peering through the darkness, “is it not Squire Loring of Tilford?”
“That is indeed my name.”
“Had you spoken it I for one would not have stopped your way. Put down your staff, Wat, for this is no stranger, but the Squire of Tilford.”