Presently there was a crackling of brushwood. The pillar of smoke swelled to a cloud of draughty vapour; dead wood had been thrown on the fire, and the flames licked through it and rose as crimson and yellow tongues against the blackness of the beech wood. A sense of restlessness seemed to come from nowhere and to show itself in the wavering lights and shadows that played under the boughs of the beeches. Fulk saw a solitary figure outlined against the fire, thrusting a pole under the burning brushwood, and looking, with the jagged comb of its hood, like a sinister black devil.
Something moved in the mouth of the quarry, a patch of greyness that disassociated itself from the vague gloom of the brambles and furze. Fulk’s chin went up, and his eyes were on the alert. The figure shaped itself into that of a grey friar, and Fulk guessed it to be Father Merlin.
He came gliding in like a ghost. A grey arm went up and gave Fulk a benediction.
“Peace to you, Fulk Ferrers.”
Merlin sat himself down on the stone seat outside the cell, with his staff across his knees. His cowl was drawn, and Fulk could not see his face, but merely a patch of blackness where the face should be.
The Franciscan took his beads and muttered three prayers, and Fulk watched him, wondering what Merlin’s business might be, and how far he was to be trusted.
“Has the blood grown restless in you, Fulk Ferrers?”
His voice was smooth and persuasive.
“No more than in a hawk on a perch.”
“The hawk would fly, eh! Young blood runs hot. I have many things to say to you, Fulk of the Forest.”