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prohibited him from being a totally good man
or a totally bad one, the burgeoning weight of indecision, like a runner with
lifted foot, but without the relief of the final command to bring the foot
down.
     
    He
grew aware of his wayward horse straying into the night. He jerked on the reins
with such force that the horse whinnied in pain. It was a good sound, a
comforting sound. He pulled the animal's head about and dug his heels into the
flesh of the underbelly. Eagerly he lifted the whip into the air and brought it
down with a resounding slap across the broad rump. The horse shot forward under
the duress of pain, reached the road with flying hooves, confused and angry by
the whims of the young man who straddled him.
     
    With
a kind of delirium in his eyes, his cheeks drained of color, his long hair
flying backward in the night, Russell urged the animal forward, searching the
horizon for The Hanging Man, for respite, for relief from his agonizing doubts.
     
    Even
after the horse reached top speed, Russell forced him on, shouting, "Faster!
Faster!" Out of the wind whistling by his head, he thought he heard a
young girl's screams.
     
    "Are
you well?" Ragland whispered. He bent close to the bolted oak door,
pressing a linen against his face to keep from gagging on the odor of rotting
flesh.
     
    Although
he had wanted to go directly to his quarters and the sweet silent company of
his charge, Elfie, he had stopped by the Keep on his way back from his
disturbing visit to Mortemouth. A man did have responsibilities to his friends,
duties. Stealthily he had let himself in through the outer door and now stood
in total blackness. The odor was that of death itself.
     
    Again
he bent his head low and clamped the linen more closely about his nostrils.
"Marianne? Can you hear me?"
     
    No
response. The primary source of his distress came from the fact that he knew
Hartlow Locke and his daughter as intimately as family. Indeed on occasion,
with the exception of his beloved little Elfie, he looked upon them as such,
had spent many happy hours in their cottage.
     
    Before
now the prisoners he had locked up in this stinking place had been men,
full-grown and brutish, whose crimes of theft, murder, and insubordination had
been clear-cut and worthy of punishment. Then, too, most had been strangers.
     
    Again
he leaned close in apprehension. "Marianne?" He waited, listening,
his ear cocked to one side. Asleep? Not likely. Dead? Pray God, no!
     
    He
looked quickly over his shoulder. What he was doing was in itself a crime.
Those assigned to the charnel house were to be given no respite, no succor.
Still he had to make sure she was well, a mere child who in the past had
charmed him vdth her beauty, had charmed all for that matter.
     
    Save
one! Old Ragland glowered at the bolted door, a look of anger crossing his
face. Generally he was completely loyal to Lord Eden, supportive to a fault.
The present Lord Eden was not a bad man. He was weak perhaps, certainly bored,
and arrogant. But not evil. That was why this extreme punishment was so out of
character.
     
    Again
he called out "Marianne!" his voice still louder, throwing caution to
the wind, realizing that if he didn't take care he would attract the attention
of the night watchmen.
     
    Still
no answer. The small cell behind the locked door gave back only silence. Mother
of God, what was he to do? He could not close his eyes tonight knowing what lay
suffering behind this door. The poor child wasn't even aware that she'd lost
her father to madness. His despair and guilt mounting, Ragland suddenly cried
out, full-voiced, "Marianne. Answer me!
     
    Still
there was no response. The old man thrust his chin forward, allowing the linen
to fall to the floor. His hands were on the bolts, ready to slide them
backward, when suddenly he heard a disturbance at the outer door. Quickly he
fell back against the far wall, safe in darkness. The heavy outer door swung
open, revealing a splash of lantern