not slay him; granted. But had ye no hand in it?"

"None," said Sir Oliver. And at the same time he began to contort his

face, and signal with his mouth and eyebrows, like one who desired to

convey a warning, yet dared not utter a sound.

Dick regarded him in wonder; then he turned and looked all about him at

the empty hall.

"What make ye?" he inquired.

Why, naught," returned the priest, hastily smoothing his countenance.

I make naught; I do but suffer; I am sick. I--I--prithee, Dick, I must

begone. On the true cross of Holywood, I am clean innocent alike of

violence or treachery. Content ye, good lad. Farewell!"

And he made his escape from the apartment with unusual alacrity.

Dick remained rooted to the spot, his eyes wandering about the room, his

face a changing picture of various emotions, wonder, doubt, suspicion,

and amusement. Gradually, as his mind grew clearer, suspicion took the

upper hand, and was succeeded by certainty of the worst. He raised his

head, and, as he did so, violently started. High upon the wall there was

the figure of a savage hunter woven in the tapestry. With one hand he

held a horn to his mouth; in the other he brandished a stout spear. His

face was dark, for he was meant to represent an African.

The Black Arrow