“Traitor!”
His mouth twitched; he looked at Martin, and passed her over.
“Valliant, we captains have sworn not to keep you as one of us. It is our right to choose; we have our reasons. No harm shall be done you; you shall go out into the Forest—as you came from it. Take your life, man; this room is no place for you, and no place for brawls and violence.”
Martin’s face was gray and haggard. The muscles stood out like cords in his throat, and he drew his breath heavily. He gave one glance at Mellis, and moved suddenly toward the door.
“Explicit,” he said, crossing his hands upon his chest. “God have mercy on us all, John Falconer.”
The men seized him and hurried him down the stairway, nor did he resist. In the courtyard they stripped him of his armor, leaving him nothing but his old cassock, a girdle and a knife. He was taken across the bridge and through the camp to the beech wood. A knight in black harness was waiting there, leaning on his sword. One of the men gave Martin a wallet full of food.
The knight—it was Sir Gregory—went close to Martin, and stared into his face.
“Let us not see you again,” he said. “Go—and take your shame and your sin away from us.”
He pointed with his sword into the gloom of the beeches.
“Show your face again, and there shall be no mercy for you, you thing of evil omen. Go!”