“Murderers have been here,” said Cyril with a groan.
Marcus snatched the lamp from the table and held it to the face of the man in the corner.
“It is Stephanus,” he said, “Stephanus bound and gagged, but living, and the other is the slave woman. Hold the lamp while I loose them,” and drawing his short sword, he cut away the bonds, first of the one and then of the other. “Speak, man, speak!” he said, as Stephanus struggled to his feet. “What has chanced here?”
For some moments the old steward stared at him with round, frightened eyes. Then he gasped:
“Oh! my lord, I thought you dead. They said that they had come to kill you by command of the Jew Caleb, he who gave the evidence.”
“They! Who?” asked Marcus.
“I know not, four men whose faces were masked. They said also that though you must die, they were commanded to do me and this woman no harm, only to bind and silence us. This they did, then, having taken what money they could find, went out to waylay you. Afterwards I heard a scuffle in the arch and well-nigh died of sorrow, for I who could neither warn nor help you, was sure that you were perishing beneath their knives.”
“For this deliverance, thank God,” said Cyril, lifting up his hands.
“Presently, presently,” answered Marcus. “First follow me,” and taking the lamp in his hand, he ran back to the archway.
Beneath it a man lay upon his face—he across whom Marcus had stumbled, and about him blood flowed from many wounds. In silence they turned him over so that the light fell upon his features. Then Marcus staggered back amazed, for, behold! they were Caleb’s, notwithstanding the blood and wounds that marred them, still dark and handsome in his death sleep.