“Well and bravely spoken!” exclaimed my father, “’twas a well-born youth, I warrant thee.”
“Nay,” answered the old servant, “he wore the hodden gray. But gentle or simple, he soon was forced to make good his words or swallow them, for my young master and his crew withdrew them for a brief space, then came rushing all together, bearing a huge log which they employed for a battering ram. At the very first thrust, it broke down the cottage door with a horrid crash. Then those that bore it instantly drew swords and poniards and essayed to enter in its wake.
“Old Marvin, it seemed, had his cross-bow ready drawn; and he shot young Montalvan through the face at the first onslaught. The stranger youth fought with broadsword, and well and truly too. He had at first some vantage in the shadow in which he stood; but soon the rioters were all around him. He felled one of them with his very first stroke; but then Sir Boris came opposite him, striking and cursing like a madman. Marvin was overthrown and sorely wounded, and still the youth fought on, beset by four of his enemies at once. In a moment he had thrust Sir Boris clean through the body, and an instant after, fell, wounded to the death.”
OLD MARVIN HAD HIS CROSS-BOW READY DRAWN, AND HE SHOT YOUNG MONTALVAN THROUGH THE FACE AT THE VERY FIRST ONSET
“Oh! By all the Saints!” cried Lord Mountjoy, “in hodden gray, say’st thou? I warrant ’twas a disguise, and that he was of noble strain. He could not have better died had he been a Huntingdon or a Montmorency.”
During this recital my mother’s face had grown white as wax. Now she asked in halting whispers, midst gasps for breath that came near to being sobs:
“Had’st thou—no word—of his name and degree?”
“Nay, my lady,” replied the old servant, “save that Marvin seemed to know him and called him Cedric.”
“Cedric!” cried my mother and I at once, while my father turned deadly pale and sat down heavily on a bench near by.