There was something in his voice, a tone of authority, a note of grim determination, which cowed the rabble of men for an instant. Maurice St. Clair pushed his way through the door in silence.
“Maurice,” said Lord Dunseveric, this time in quiet, even tones, “take that scoundrel by the throat, and if he offers any resistance choke him.”
The man loosed his hold of the two women, and his hand flew to his sword hilt, but before he could draw it, Maurice bounded upon him and flung him to the ground. Once, twice, thrice, as the trooper strove to raise himself, his head was dashed down on the hard earthen floor of the meeting-house.
After the third time he lay still. Maurice rose and stood over him.
“Captain Twinely,” said Lord Dunseveric, “loose the belt from your prisoner’s arms at once.”
The order was obeyed, and Neal stood free. “Bid your men leave the meeting-house, all but the man who holds the torch and the one who lies there on the floor.”
The men, cowed and sullen, went out.
“Now,” said Lord Dunseveric, “I will have this matter cleared up and I will have justice done.” He turned to Neal.
“How came you here with my daughter and the Comtesse de Tourneville?”
Neal stood silent.