Time and
again he had almost wooed slumber to him when soft footsteps on the
gravel paths, low voices, the gentle closing of the gate, brought him
back to the unreal listening wakefulness. The sounds continued late into
the night, and when he did fall asleep he dreamed of them. He awoke to a
dawn clearer than the light from the noonday sun. In his ears was the
ringing of a bell. He could not stand still, and his movements were
subtle and swift. His hands took a peculiar, tenacious, hold of
everything he chanced to touch. He paced his hidden walk behind the
arbor, at every turn glancing sharply up and down the road. Thoughts
came to him clearly, yet one was dominant. The morning was curiously
quiet, the sons of the Bishop had strangely disappeared--a sense of
imminent catastrophe was in the air.
A band of horsemen closely grouped turned into the road and trotted
forward. Some of the men wore black masks. Holderness rode at the
front, his red-gold beard shining in the sunlight. The steady clip-crop
of hoofs and clinking of iron stirrups broke the morning quiet.
Holderness, with two of his men, dismounted before the Bishop's gate; the
others of the band trotted on down the road.
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