It was hard to say which was the more terrible face, his or that of Tom, which was perfectly white, and set in lines of ferocity and hatred as though petrified into stone.
In the doorway stood the figure of a tall monk, clad in the long white robe and black cloak of his order.

Behind him was another, similarly attired, holding the light above his head.
The first stepped quietly forward, and laid a hand upon Tom's shoulder; and something in the touch made the young man turn his head to meet the calm, authoritative glance bent upon him.
"Enough, my son, enough," he said, in quiet tones, that brooked, however, no contradiction.

"Let the man go." Had the followers of Montacute sought to loose his clasp by force, Tom would have crushed the life from his victim without a qualm; but at this gentle word of command he instantly loosed his hold, and stood upright before the monk.
"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.