This act, which combined clemency with firmness, was very popular with the multitude, and the culprits themselves were thankful for having been treated with such leniency. A number of them left the hall on hearing this award, but others remained to hear what would befall their old comrade Roger de Horn, who had not been recognized by many in his changed condition, having in fact taken some pains to keep himself away from former associates until he had carried out his plans.
The braggart and bully was led in his turn before the Chancellor, his hands still bound, but the arms he had upon him still in their place. Roger was one of those men who always carried a sword, and was of the regular swashbuckler type so common in the Middle Ages. He looked a pitiable object now—fear and rage struggling for mastery in his face as he met the steadfast gaze of the Chancellor. His spirit had deserted him under his misfortunes, and his blotched face was white with craven fear.
"Roger de Horn, calling thyself Robert Holker, thou hast been caught red-handed in an act of unpardonable wickedness, and hast been (if thy comrade speaks truth) deeply concerned in a murderous plot. Thy case will be considered at leisure, and thy punishment made known when that of Tito Balzani is likewise decided. Meantime thou wilt be kept in restraint, and taste the wholesome discipline of prison. Take off that sword and deliver it, in my presence, to Hugh le Barbier, whom thou hast sought so greatly to injure. Thou shalt never wear arms in this city again. Thou wilt do well, if ever thou dost receive liberty, to quit Oxford and seek to live a different life in some other place. Here thy record has been nothing but one of black treachery and disgrace!"
A murmur of approbation followed these words. Gilbert Barbeck, who was standing guard over the prisoner, so far loosed his right hand as to enable him to obey the Chancellor's command. With sullen brow, and eyes that gleamed fiercely as those of a wild beast caught in the toils, Roger detached the sword from his belt and tendered it to Hugh; but so malevolent was the look upon his face that a faint cry broke from the veiled maiden who stood nigh at hand, and drew the Chancellor's regards upon her.
"Remove the prisoner," he said sternly; and Roger was led away, the hall almost clearing itself as soon as the people had seen the last of this procession.
Around the daïs at the upper end there still remained the knot of persons who had brought in Roger and Tito, together with those who had accompanied the Constable and the Chancellor. The latter turned towards Linda, and asked in a gentle tone,—
"What dost thou still fear, fair maiden?"
She made a humble reverence and put back the hood of her cloak, permitting for the first time her fair, pure face to be seen. Her eyes looked like those of a startled fawn, and the flitting colour came and went in her cheek, but she spoke with a soft and gentle steadiness which bespoke a well-ruled spirit.
"I have come to fear those evil men with a great fear," she answered. "Twice have they sought to compass the death of him I love, and to obtain possession of mine own person. They are crafty and wily, as well as fierce. I fear them sorely. No place seems safe from them; and yet one of them is mine own kinsman—my half-brother. But I fear me he has sold himself to do evil, and is the tool of a spirit more wicked than his own."
Here Bridget Marlow, who had been speaking apart with her husband, stepped forward and said,—