the king in far-away London, and prepared to take the law into his own hands, although he well knew that Castle Barnecan was better garrisoned than his own stronghold. Weapons were overhauled, equipment inspected and the fighting men given instructions.
The castle had sunk into comparative quiet at sunrise, but was immediately roused by a shouting at the drawbridge. Rushing to a turret they saw Gomar, his clothes again in ribbons, clinging to his horse’s neck to steady himself and doing his best to attract the attention of the guards.
The bridge was lowered and he stumbled over, a pitiful figure, his body covered with long scratches and jagged rents; his horse a lather of sweat and blood, almost spent.
“Oh, sir,” he babbled, sinking down at the knight’s feet, “again I bring bad news. Your son Brian is dead.”
“How?” croaked Sir Robert.
“By the wolves,” wailed the man, shuddering and covering his face with his hands. “Hundreds of them. Gray devils! We had no chance, though we killed scores. And the great gray wolf of Barnecan led them. Oh sir, it is true Gray Henry is a werewolf, or a devil! The great wolf killed Brian, dragged down his horse, and tore the lad’s throat out as I watched. I fled—they followed—miles and miles. Oh God!” He collapsed in a dead faint.
There was a hush in the castle that day. All had loved Brian. Now they waited for some action from Sir Robert. But he sat, old and gray, in his alcove, slowly thumbing the pages of his books on alchemy and staring at his impotent retorts.
At last he roused himself and sent for Couteau. “My friend,” he said gently, when the latter appeared, “I saved your life once in Palestine. I have treated you as my foster-son since that day. You swore eternal devotion to me then. You are the only hope I have now, and I ask your aid.”
“Sir,” replied Gil, “I will give my life gladly to help you. Also you must know that I have loved Lady Constance since first we met. Therefore I am doubly bound. Command me.” He stood, tall and dark, before Sir Robert.
“I would that we might storm that cursed castle,” continued the old man, “but we are not strong enough to try, except as a last resort. Besides, many whom I love would be killed. Therefore, let us use strategy. Do you know aught of werewolves?”
“A little,” replied Gil briefly. “They are called loups-garoux in my country.”
“Then from what you have seen and heard, you must know that my foster-brother seems to have discovered that devilish art of changing himself into a wolf at will.”
“I feared as much.”
“Listen carefully, then. The nature of werewolves is such that they are allied to the powers of darkness. Therefore they can never appear in the light. One imbued with such powers, therefore, can, and at last must, change into the wolfish form at sundown—but—and here is what I wish you to remember, my son—he must change back into his normal shape again at sunrise.”
“So I have heard.”
“One thing more. Gray Henry had the fingers of his right hand injured years ago in the wars. This makes it hard for him to wield a sword, though on account of his giant stature no man could stand against him in his youth.
“Think well over these things, my boy, and do as you think best, but remember that the werewolf has killed my uncle and now my son, two of the best swordsmen of the country.”
