“I will not,” shouted the monk through the grill. “You are nothing but—” then he dashed the shutter into its place as a stick struck fiercely at the bars.
“Back to the cloister,” he said.
The roar outside was tremendous as the six went back across the empty court; but it fell to a sinister silence as an order or two was shouted outside; and then again swelled with an excited note in it, as the first crash sounded on the panels.
Chris looked at his father as they stood again on the steps fifty yards away. The old man was standing rigid, his hands at his sides, staring out towards the arch of the gateway that now thundered like a drum; and his lips were moving. Once he caught his breath as a voice shouted above the din outside, and half turned to his son, his hand uplifted as if for silence. Then again the voice pealed, and Sir James faced round and stared into Chris’s eyes. But neither spoke a word.
Dom Anthony, who was standing a yard or two in front, turned presently as the sound of splintering began to be mingled with the reverberations, and came towards them. His square, full face was steady and alert, and he spoke with a sharp decision.
“You and Sir Nicholas, sir, had best be within. My place will be here; they will be in immediately.”
His words were perfectly distinct here in the open air in spite of the uproar from the gate.
There was an indignant burst from the young squire.
“No, no, father; I shall not stir from here.”
The monk looked at him; but said no more and turned round.