For a moment the dying man was silent, until his face lit up as with a great gladness, and he cried in a loud, clear voice, “Beloved wife, I hear you!  O, God, I come!”

Then though his eyes stayed open, and the smile still rested on his face, his jaw fell.

Thus died Sir Andrew D’Arcy.

Still kneeling on either side of him, the brethren watched the end, and, as his spirit passed, bowed their heads in prayer.

“We have seen a great death,” said Godwin presently.  “Let us learn a lesson from it, that when our time comes we may die like him.”

“Ay,” answered Wulf, springing to his feet, “but first let us take vengeance for it.  Why, what is this?  Rosamund’s writing!  Read it, Godwin.”

Godwin took the parchment and read: 

“Follow me to Saladin.  In that hope I live on.”

“Surely we will follow you, Rosamund,” he cried aloud.  “Follow you through life to death or victory.”

Then he threw down the paper, and calling for the chaplain to come to watch the body, they ran into the hall.  By this time about half of the folk were awake from their drugged sleep, whilst others who had been doctored by the man Ali in the barn staggered into the hall—­wild-eyed, white-faced, and holding their hands to their heads and hearts.  They were so sick and bewildered, indeed, that it was difficult to make them understand what had chanced, and when they learned the truth, the most of them could only groan.  Still, a few were found strong enough in wit and body to grope their way through the darkness and the falling snow to Stangate Abbey, to Southminster, and to the houses of their neighbours, although of these there were none near, praying that every true man would arm and ride to help them in the hunt.  Also Wulf, cursing the priest Matthew and himself that he had not thought of it before, called him from his prayers by their dead uncle, and charged him to climb the church tower as swiftly as he could, and set light to the beacon that was laid ready there.

Away he went, taking flint, steel, and tinder with him, and ten minutes later the blaze was flaring furiously above the roof of Steeple Church, warning all men of the need for help.  Then they armed, saddled such horses as they had, amongst them the three that had been left there by the merchant Georgios, and gathered all of them who were not too sick to ride or run, in the courtyard of the Hall.  But as yet their haste availed them little, for the moon was down.  Snow fell also, and the night was still black as death—­so black that a man could scarcely see the hand he held before his face.  So they must wait, and wait they did, eating their hearts out with grief and rage, and bathing their aching brows in icy water.