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light and the hooded sleepy-eyed faces of
two night watchmen.
     
    "In
here you say you heard it?" asked one, holding the lantern aloft.
     
    "Here
it was, a man's cry—" At that instant the stench reached their noses.
Wildly they waved their hands before them as though such a simple gesture were
capable of cleansing the air.
     
    "My
God," gasped one of them.
     
    "Come
on," said the one holding the lantern in an anguished voice. "Ain't
nuthin' here but the dead Cornwellian and he ain't likely to be crying out. As
for the girl—"
     
    But
the other persisted. "I swear I heard—" he began, then broke off in a
choking tone.
     
    "All
you heard was her," the other scolded. "Gawd! The whipping oak will
be paradise after this." Waving his hand in a gesture of desperation, he
added, "Back! Ain't no man alive in here."
     
    With
incredible swiftness they stumbled out of the door, closing it rapidly behind
them.
     
    Old
Ragland, who had denied himself breath during the short interruption, turned
his face to the wall, gasping. The beating of his heart increased. He realized
how narrow had been his escape. He could not stay a moment longer. His own
position was at stake. If she was dead, so be it. If she survived the night and
the morning, he would assist her. And it wasn't as though she were truly alone.
She still had her brother, Russell, a fine boy, who would go to any lengths to
help her.
     
    He
found comfort in this thought, at least enough to enable him to walk past the
bolted and silent door. He thought how much better his sleep would be if only
he had received one brief reassurance from her.
     
    But
it was not to be, and he adjusted rapidly to its absence and moved quickly
across the blackness to the outer door. Stealthily he opened it a crack, peered
in both directions of the inner courtyard. He closed the door behind him and
moved rapidly along the castle wall. Where the wall angled to accommodate the
Great Hall, he spied the bobbing lantern of the watchman.
     
    At
the same moment the man spied Ragland. "Who passes?" he called out
sharply, again lifting the lantern high above his head.
     
    Ragland
drew a deep breath and tried to give his voice an ease of manner. "A
highwayman," he called back, in a feeble attempt at humor, "come to
loot the castle."
     
    The
dull-witted watchman stopped in his tracks, as though he believed the absurd
answer. Then, coming still closer and upon seeing Ragland, he laughed heartily
in relief. "You're up and about late, sir," he scolded. "Gave me
a start, you did."
     
    Ragland
greeted him with a cordial slap on the shoulder. "Just a breath of air,
that's all. No sleeping on a night hot as this."
     
    The
man concurred. "Did you just pass the Keep, sir?" he asked.
     
    Ragland
shook his head.
     
    The
man grinned. "Not that I blame you." He stepped closer. "But I
swear I heard a man's voice there."
     
    Ragland
dismissed the notion out of hand. "Not likely," he comforted. "The
only man in that place has long since met his Maker. God rest his soul."
     
    The
watchman nodded in pious agreement, then grinned again in relief. "Well,
then, on toward morning. Right?"
     
    Ragland
nodded. "Watch well," he called in parting.
     
    The
man assured him that he would, then hoisted the lantern aloft and continued his
sentry through the night. Ragland watched him until he disappeared down the way
near the Guardsmens Mess where, unless Ragland missed his guess, the man would
stop in for ale to quench his thirst before he started his rounds again.
     
    Alone
in the night, Ragland looked back toward the Keep. He was not a praying man,
knew Jesus only vaguely, scant knowledge picked up at his mother's knee before
that poor woman had died of consumption when Ragland was a boy of four. He had
grown up on the Eden estates, working in the fields and with the sheep at
first, and then, because he had a way with animals, handling the hounds for the
present Lord Eden's father. He had enjoyed that bland man's