"He drove me to it--his blood be upon his own head! He would have
scourged me to death, I verily believe, had it not been that the
rafter gave way."
Tom spoke English, for he had been addressed in that language, and
so knew that he should be understood. The monk bent his head, as
though he grasped the entire situation.
"I would we had come in time to spare you what you have already
suffered, my son. But we did only enter the doors as the fall of
the rafter announced that some catastrophe had happened. I feared
to find you already a corpse."
"You came after me, good father?" asked Tom in amaze.
"Yes, truly. Your companion, who is safe over the other pass by
this time, caused the message to reach us that you were like to
fall into the hands of Montacute, and be hanged or shot. He begged
that if we could we would save you; and as our work lies in
succouring those who are in peril upon these heights, be that peril
what it may, we have been seeking you ever since. I would we had
arrived a few minutes earlier."
Tom's eyes gleamed; it seemed to him as though the madness was not
yet out of his blood.
"I can scarce echo that wish, reverend father," he said; "for I
have had my taste of joy! If my back be torn and scored, I have had
my fingers on yon miscreant's throat.
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