CHAPTER XXIV.
[AWAITING THE BLOW.]
A moment later the servants in the hall heard a scream--a scream of such horror and fear that they scarcely recognized a human voice in the sound. They sprang to their feet scared and trembling, and for a few seconds looked into one another's faces. Then, as curiosity got the upper hand, the boldest took the lead and all hurried pell-mell to the door, issuing in a mob into the courtyard, where Ferdinand Cludde, who happened to be near and had also heard the cry, joined them. "Where was it, Baldwin?" he exclaimed.
"At the back, I think," the steward answered. He alone had had the coolness to bring out a lantern, and he now led the way toward the rear of the house. Sure enough, close to the edge of the moat, they found Martin, stooping with his hands on his knees, a great wound, half bruise, half cut, upon his forehead. "What is it?" Ferdinand cried sharply. "Who did it, man?"
Baldwin had already thrown his light on the fool's face, and Martin, seeming to become conscious of their presence, looked at them, but in a dazed fashion. "What?" he muttered, "what is what?"
By this time nearly every one in the house had hurried to the spot; among them not only Petronilla, clinging to her father's arm, but Mistress Anne, her face pale and gloomy, and half a dozen womenfolk who clutched one another tightly, and screamed at regular intervals.
"What is it?" Baldwin repeated roughly, laying his hand on Martin's arm and slightly shaking him. "Come, who struck you, man?"
"I think," the fool answered slowly, gulping down something and turning a dull eye on the group; "a--a swallow flew by--and hit me!"
They shrank away from him instinctively and some crossed themselves. "He is in one of his mad fits," Baldwin muttered. Still the steward showed no fear. "A swallow, man!" he cried aloud. "Come, talk sense. There are no swallows flying at this time of year. And if there were, they do not fly by night, nor give men wounds like that. What was it? Out with it, now. Do you not see, man," he added, giving Martin an impatient shake, "that Sir Anthony is waiting?"
The fool nodded stupidly. "A swallow," he muttered. "Ay, 'twas a swallow, a great big swallow. I--I nearly put my foot on him."