"Then who is it?" cried the steward impatiently.
"He is shrewd, is Martin--when the saints have not got their backs to him," said the old fellow slyly.
"Who is it?" thundered the steward, well used to this rustic method of evasion. "Answer, you dolt!"
But no answer came, and Baldwin never got one; for at this moment a man who had been watching in front of the house ran in.
"They are here!" he cried, "a good hundred of them, and torches enough for St. Anthony's Eve. Get you to the gate, porter, Sir Anthony is calling for you. Do you hear?"
There was a great uprising, a great clattering of feet and barking of dogs, and some wailing among the women. As the messenger finished speaking, a harsh challenge which penetrated even the courtyard arose from many voices without, and was followed by the winding of a horn. This sufficed. All hurried with one accord into the court, where the porter looked to Baldwin for instructions.
"Hold a minute!" cried the steward, silencing the loudest hound by a sound kick, and disregarding Sir Anthony's voice, which came from the direction of the gateway. "Let us see if they are at the back too."
He ran through the passage and, emerging on the edge of the moat, was at once saluted by a dozen voices warning him back. There were a score of dark figures standing in the little close where the fight had taken place. "Right," said Baldwin to himself. "Needs must when the old gentleman drives! Only I thought I would make sure."
He ran back at once, nearly knocking down Martin, who with a companion was making, but at a slower pace, for the front of the house.
"Well, old comrade!" cried the steward, smiting the fool on the back as he passed, "you are here, are you? I never thought that you and I would be in at our own deaths!"