When the lull came in the fighting, Françoise and Tina had crept to their window, from which they had been driven by the danger of flying arrows. They watched the men gather about the fire.
"There are not enough sentries on the stockade," said Tina.
In spite of her nausea at the sight of the corpses sprawled about the palisades, Françoise was moved to laugh.
"Do you think you know more about war than the men'?" she chided gently.
"There should be more men on the walls," insisted the child, shivering. "Suppose the black man came back! One man to a side is not enough. The black man could creep beneath the wall and shoot him with a poisoned dart before he could cry out. He is like a shadow, and hard to see by torchlight."
Françoise shuddered at the thought.
"I am afraid," murmured Tina. "I hope Villiers and Harston are killed."
"And not Vulmea?" asked Françoise curiously.
"Black Vulmea would not harm a woman," said the child confidently.
"You are wise beyond your years, Tina," murmured Françoise.
"Look!" Tina stiffened. "The sentry is gone from the south wall! I saw him on the ledge a moment ago. Now he has vanished."
From their window the palisade points of the south wall were just visible over the slanting roofs of a row of huts which paralleled that wall almost its entire length. A sort of open-topped corridor, three or four yards wide, was formed by the stockade-wall and the back of the huts, which were built in a solid row. These huts were occupied by the retainers.
"Where could the sentry have gone?" whispered Tina uneasily.
Françoise was watching one end of the hut-row which was not far from a side door of the manor. She could have sworn she saw a shadowy figure glide from behind the huts and disappear at the door. Was that the vanished sentry? Why had he left the wall, and why should he steal so subtly into the manor? She did not believe it was the sentry she had seen, and a nameless fear congealed her blood.
"Where is the Count, Tina?" she asked.
"In the great hall, my Lady. He sits alone at the table, wrapped in his cloak and drinking wine, with a face grey as death."
"Go and tell him what we have seen. I will keep watch from this window, lest the Indians climb the unguarded wall."
Tina scampered away. Françoise heard her slippered feet pattering along the corridor, receding down the stair. Then suddenly, terribly, there rang out a scream of such poignant fear that Françoise's heart almost stopped with the shock of it. She was out of the chamber and flying down the corridor before she was aware that her limbs were in motion. She ran down the stair—and halted as if turned to stone.
She did not scream as Tina had screamed. She was incapable of sound or motion. She saw Tina, was aware of the reality of small hands grasping frantically. But these were the only realities in a scene of nightmare, and brain-shattering horror.
Out in the stockade Harston had shaken his head at Vulmea's question.
"I heard nothing."
"I did!" Vulmea's wild instincts were roused. "It came from the south wall, behind those huts!"
Drawing his cutlass he strode toward the palisades. From the compound the south wall and the sentry posted there were not visible, being hidden behind the huts. Harston followed, impressed by Vulmea's manner.
At the mouth of the open lane between the huts and the wall Vulmea halted, swearing. The space was dimly lighted by torches flaring at either corner of the stockade. And midway in that natural corridor a crumpled shape sprawled on the ground.
"The sentry!"
"Hawksby!" swore Harston, running forward and dropping on one knee beside the figure. "By Satan, his throat's cut from ear to ear!"
Vulmea swept the alley with a quick glance, finding it empty save for himself, Harston and the dead man. He peered through a loop-hole. No living man moved within the ring of torch-light outside the fort.
"Who could have done this?" he wondered.
"Villiers!" Harston sprang up, spitting fury like a wildcat. "He has set his dogs to stabbing my men in the back! He plans to destroy me by treachery!"
"Wait, Dick!" Vulmea caught his arm. He had glimpsed the tufted end of a dart jutting from the dead pirate's neck. "I don't believe Villiers—"
But the maddened pirate jerked away and rushed around the end of the but row, breathing blasphemies. Vulmea ran after him, swearing. Harston made straight toward the fire by which Villiers' tall form was visible as the buccaneer chief quaffed a jack of ale.
His amazement was supreme when the jack was dashed violently from his hand, spattering his breastplate with foam, and he was jerked around to confront the convulsed face of the Englishman.
"You murdering dog!" roared Harston. "Will you slay my men behind my back while they fight for your filthy hide as well as for mine'?"
On all sides men ceased eating and drinking to gape in amazement.
"What do you mean?" sputtered Villiers.
"You've set your men to murdering mine at their posts!" bellowed Harston.
"You lie!" Smoldering hate burst into sudden flame.
