"Nay Roger, 'twas but some branch—"
"Lord, when knew ye a branch with—fingers—slimy and cold—upon my cheek here. 'Twas a warning, master—he dead hand! One of us twain goeth to his death this night!"
"Let not thine heart fail therefor, good Roger: man, being dead, liveth forever—"
"Nay, but—the dead hand, master—on my cheek, here—Ah!—" Crying thus, Black Roger sprang and caught Beltane's arm, gripping it fast, for on the air, borne upon the wind, yet louder than the wind, a shrill sound rang and echoed, the which, passing, seemed to have stricken the night to silence. Then Beltane brake from Roger's clasp, and ran on beside the river, until, beyond the sullen waters the watch-fires flared before him, in whose red light the mill loomed up rugged and grim, its massy walls scarred and cracked, its great wheel fallen to ruin.
Now above the wheel was a gap in the masonry, an opening roughly square that had been a window, mayhap, whence shone a warm, mellow light.
"Master," panted Roger, "a God's name—what was it?"
"A woman screamed!" quoth Beltane, staring upon the lighted window. As he spake a man laughed sleepily beside the nearest watch-fire, scarce a bow-shot away.
"Look'ee, master," whispered Roger, "we may not cross by the ford because of the watch-fires—'tis a fair light to shoot by, and the river is very deep hereabouts."
"Yet must we swim it, Roger."
"Lord, the water is in flood, and our armour heavy!"