somebody showed the old man to a rude chamber, where a bundle of pease
straw was to serve him for bed.

But the lord of Bellister sat on, "glooming" morbidly to himself. Bitter
feud existed between him and a neighbouring baron. Had he not cause to
distrust that baron, and to believe that means neither fair nor
honourable might be employed by his enemy to wipe out the feud? What if
this self-styled harper should turn out to be no minstrel after all, but
a hired assassin, a follower of that base churl, his hated foe! To
suspect was to believe. In his excited, drink-clouded brain wrath sprang
up, fully armed. He would speedily put an end to that treacherous
scheme; his enemies should learn that if one can plot, another may have
cunning to bring to naught such treachery. And little mercy should be
shown to the base tool of a baser employer.

"Bring hither quickly to me that minstrel," he called. "And it will be
the better for some of you that there be no delay," he muttered beneath
his breath, with a threatening blow of his fist on the table.

Of old his servants and dependants had learned the lesson that it was
well not to linger over the carrying out of their passionate lord's
orders. But in this instance, speed was of no avail; they were obliged
to return, to report to a wrathful master that the bird had flown; the
place was empty, the old man gone. Threatening glances and black looks
had scared him; without waiting for rest, he had fled while yet there
was time, less afraid of exposure to a wild and stormy night than to
find himself in the clutches of a petty tyrant.

That the man had fled was to Blenkinsopp quite convincing proof that his
suspicions were justified. Immediate pursuit was ordered. "Lay the