Then the same voice spoke again, and with something of a foreign accent.
“You are there, then; make haste and open.”
Another voice shouted authoritatively for silence; and the clamour of tongues died.
Dom Anthony waited until all was quiet, and then answered steadily.
“Who are you?”
There was an oath; the tumult began again, but hushed immediately, as the same voice that had called for admittance shouted aloud—
“Open, I tell you, you bloody monk! We come from the King.”
“Why do you come?”
A gabble of fierce tongues broke out; Chris pressed up to Dom Anthony’s back, and looked out. The space was very narrow, and he could not see much more than a man’s leg across a saddle, the brown shoulder of a horse in front, and a smoky haze beyond and over the horse’s back. The leg shifted a little as he watched, as if the rider turned; and then again the voice pealed out above the tumult.
“Will you open, sir, for the last time?”