There were steps in the room below. Footsteps mounted the stairs.
The door was thrown open, a shaft of light streamed in, and a calm,
full voice demanded in the French tongue:
"What, in the name of all the saints, is this?"
"Holy father, he is murdering our master!" suddenly cried one of
the men, recovering from his stupor of terror, and seeing now how
Tom's great hands were gripping the throat of Sir James.
Montacute's face was purple. His eyes seemed to be starting from
their sockets. It was hard to say which was the more terrible face,
his or that of Tom, which was perfectly white, and set in lines of
ferocity and hatred as though petrified into stone.
In the doorway stood the figure of a tall monk, clad in the long
white robe and black cloak of his order. Behind him was another,
similarly attired, holding the light above his head.
The first stepped quietly forward, and laid a hand upon Tom's
shoulder; and something in the touch made the young man turn his
head to meet the calm, authoritative glance bent upon him.
"Enough, my son, enough," he said, in quiet tones, that brooked,
however, no contradiction. "Let the man go."
Had the followers of Montacute sought to loose his clasp by force,
Tom would have crushed the life from his victim without a qualm;
but at this gentle word of command he instantly loosed his hold,
and stood upright before the monk.
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