“Oh, Hubert! What dost thou here? And what do ye to these friends of mine that they lie on the ground in bonds?”
The stranger youth was sitting up on his leafy couch. His face was still deadly pale, but his eyes gleamed brightly.
“Our Lady be thanked! He lives,” muttered the leader of the men-at-arms, to my utter amaze doffing his headpiece before the stricken youth. Then in answer:
“Master Geoffrey, God be thanked, they have not murdered thee! But these are Sir Richard of Mountjoy and the forester, Cedric, the very same that did to death thy brother, Lionel. Now we shall swing them from yonder oak limb. ’Twill heal thee faster to see thy enemies thus justly served.”
“Hubert, thou shalt not,—on thy life!” cried Geoffrey, his weak voice shrill with passion, “be they Mountjoys or be they sons of Beelzebub, they are good men and true, and have over and again risked their lives for mine. And I do verily believe that the tale they told at the Shrewsbury trial was the truth, and that my brother brought his death upon himself. Now cut those bonds,—and quickly.”
The soldier yet hesitated and muttered somewhat beneath his breath.
“I tell thee, Hubert,” broke out Geoffrey afresh, “thou shalt loose them, and give them horses that they may ride safely to Mountjoy. If thou disobey me, verily I’ll have thee beaten with rods and cast in the lowest dungeon of Teramore.”
Another of the men-at-arms now spoke aside to Hubert.
“He is the Master, Hubert; and we must e’en obey. Forget not that, since the death of Lionel, young Sir Geoffrey is himself the Carleton.”
Hubert drew his dagger and came toward me. From the look on his ugly face I much misdoubted whether he meant to carry out the commands of his young master or to stab me to the heart. But he quickly cut the rope that bound my wrists, and then did a like service for Cedric.