“Why,” he said to Stephanus, “this is that very man whose bloody work, as they told us, the murderers came to do. It would seem that he has fallen into his own snare.”
“Are you certain, son?” asked Cyril. “Does not this gashed and gory cheek deceive you?”
“Draw that hand of his from beneath the cloak,” answered Marcus. “If I am right the first finger will lack a joint.”
Cyril obeyed and held up the stiffening hand. It was as Marcus had said.
“Caught in his own snare!” repeated Marcus. “Well, though I knew he hated me, and more than once we have striven to slay each other in battle and private fight, never would I have believed that Caleb the Jew would sink to murder. He is well repaid, the treacherous dog!”
“Judge not, that ye be not judged,” answered Cyril. “What do you know of how or why this man came by his death? He may have been hurrying here to warn you.”
“Against his own paid assassins! No, father, I know Caleb better, only he was viler than I thought.”
Then they carried the body into the house and took counsel what they should do. While they reasoned together, for every path seemed full of danger, there came a knock upon the archway door. They hesitated, not knowing whether it would be safe to open, till the knock was repeated more loudly.
“I will go, lord,” said Stephanus, “for why need I fear, who am of no account to any one?”
So he went, presently to return.