Fulk de Lisle’s voice taunted him, but grew fainter, for he was withdrawing along the causeway.
“Tricks will not serve you, Brother Martin. I give you till nightfall to decide. Come out to us, unarmed, and wearing nothing but your cassock, and your neck may be saved. The lady will pay.”
Martin let the bridge fall with a crash, and sprang to unbar the gate. His face was the face of a devil, mouth awry, nostrils agape, his forehead a knot of wrinkles; but by the time he had the gate open Fulk de Lisle was across the causeway, and walking back toward the woods, and several of Rich’s men were moving down to meet him.
Martin Valliant stood there, breathing like a man who had run a mile uphill. He did not hear Swartz come quietly behind him and take hold of the rope to raise the footbridge.
“No, no, good comrade; that trick shall not work against you.”
Martin turned with a sharp, fierce cry.
“Swartz! Let go of that rope! I must die out yonder—or win through.”
But Swartz heaved the bridge up, fastened the rope, and stood to face his man.
“What! Will you be fooled by that rogue’s tongue? I heard all that I needed to hear. He came down to try his wit on you; he prides himself on such pretty quips and villainies.”
“Man, I am selling her, betraying her!”