“You understand, Jehanot? We are of the Blois party. Be careful; look for enemies—”
“If they are a rough crew,” the old man answered, “I will preach the Black Death’s sermon to them.”
“Yes, yes.”
“And lie if needs be.”
“Should they be Croquart’s ruffians—”
Jehanot grimaced as he limped away.
“God give us better luck!” he said; and then, turning at the door: “Stay in the chapel, madame. If they are for plunder, they may grant you sanctuary.”
Jehanot climbed up to the portcullis-cell and looked out through one of the squints across the moat. A faint breeze stirred in the aspen boughs, and the trees were muttering as though feeling the presence of some peril in their midst. Leaves were falling in golden showers, and through the crowded alley-ways of the wood the wet grass glistened in the sunlight. What was that? Jehanot’s head was straining forward on its skinny neck, his eyes fixed in a hard stare. He had seen a dim figure flit across the main path to the moat and take cover behind a tree. Another and yet another followed it. Still all was silent save for the chattering of the aspen leaves. They were reconnoitring the place, and their stealth did not comfort Jehanot’s fears.
Then he heard a deep voice sounding over the water.
“Forward, sirs—forward!”