This door fixed the lad's attention with a certain curious
fascination. He longed to touch it and see whether it opened, but for
the moment he was too much afraid of his guide's return to summon him
into the presence of the marshal.
He listened intently. Surely he heard a low sound, like the wind in a
distant keyhole--or, as it might be (and it seemed more like it), the
moaning of a child in pain, it knows not why.
The heart of the youth gave a sudden leap. It came to him that he had
hit upon the hiding-place of Margaret Douglas, the heiress of the
great province of Galloway. His fortune was made.
With a trembling hand he moved a step towards the door of white wood
with the curious burned marks upon it. He stood a moment listening,
half for the returning footsteps of Clerk Henriet, and half to the
low, persistent whimper behind the panels. Suddenly he felt his right
foot wet, for, as was the fashion, he wore only a velvet shoe pointed
at the toe. He looked down, and lo! from under the door trickled a
thin stream of red.
Laurence drew his foot away, with a quick catching sob of the breath.
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