trigger, and carefully fitted the heavy, murderous-looking bolt
into the groove.

Minute after minute passed, and Schwartz Carl, holding his
arbelast in his hand, stood silently waiting and watching in the
sharp-cut, black shadow of the doorway, motionless as a stone
statue. Minute after minute passed. Suddenly there was a
movement in the shadow of the arch of the great gateway across
the court-yard, and the next moment a leathern-clad figure crept
noiselessly out upon the moonlit pavement, and stood there
listening, his head bent to one side. Schwartz Carl knew very
well that it was no one belonging to the castle, and, from the
nature of his action, that he was upon no good errand.

He did not stop to challenge the suspicious stranger. The taking
of another's life was thought too small a matter for much
thought or care in those days. Schwartz Carl would have shot a
man for a much smaller reason than the suspicious actions of
this fellow. The leather-clad figure stood a fine target in the
moonlight for a cross-bow bolt. Schwartz Carl slowly raised the
weapon to his shoulder and took a long and steady aim. Just then
the stranger put his fingers to his lips and gave a low, shrill
whistle. It was the last whistle that he was to give upon this
earth. There was a sharp, jarring twang of the bow-string, the
hiss of the flying bolt, and the dull thud as it struck its
mark. The man gave a shrill, quavering cry, and went staggering
back, and then fell all of a heap against the wall behind him.
As though in answer to the cry, half a dozen men rushed
tumultuously out from the shadow of the gateway whence the
stranger had just come, and then stood in the court-yard,