The great house at Chad was wrapped in sleep.  The brilliant beams of a June moon illuminated the fine pile of gray masonry with a strong white light.  Every castellated turret and twisted chimney stood out in bold relief from the heavy background of the pine wood behind, and the great courtyard lay white and still, lined by a dark rim of ebon shadow.

Chad, without being exactly a baronial hall of the first magnitude, was nevertheless a very fine old house.  It had been somewhat shorn of its pristine glories during the Wars of the Roses.  One out of its original two quadrangles had then been laid in ruins, and had never been rebuilt.  But the old inner quadrangle still remained standing, and made an ample and commodious dwelling house for the family of the Chadgroves who inhabited it; whilst the ground which had once been occupied by the larger outer quadrangle, with its fortifications and battlements, was now laid out in terraces and garden walks, which made a pleasant addition to the family residence.

The seventh Henry was on the throne.  The battle of Bosworth Field had put an end to the long-drawn strife betwixt the houses of York and Lancaster.  The exhausted country was beginning to look forward to a long period of prosperity and peace; and the household at Chad was one of the many that were rejoicing in the change which had come upon the public outlook, and was making the most of the peaceful years which all trusted lay before the nation.

Several changes of some importance had passed over Chad during the previous century.  The wars had made gaps in the ranks of the family to whom it had always belonged.  There had been sundry edicts of confiscation ­as speedily repealed by the next change in the fate of the day; and more than once the head had been struck down by death, and the house and lands had passed either to a minor or to some other branch of the family.  There had been the confusion and strife betwixt the various branches of the family which was a characteristic of that age of upheaval and strife; but the present owner of the estate, Sir Oliver Chadgrove, seemed firmly settled in his place.  He had fought on Henry’s side at Bosworth, and had been confirmed by that monarch in the possession of the estate of Chad; and since that day none had tried to dispute his claim; nor, indeed, would it have been very easy to do so, as he was undoubtedly the rightful representative of the older branch of the family.

A just and kindly man, he was beloved of those about him, and would have been staunchly supported by his retainers had any adversary arisen against him.  His only enemy was the Lord of Mortimer, who owned Mortimer’s Keep, the adjoining property, and had cast covetous eyes on Chad during the stormy days of the late wars, more than once trying unsuccessfully to step in between the disputing parties and claim it as his own, not by the power of right, but by that of might alone.  However, he had not been successful in this attempt; and for the past few years there had been a semblance of friendliness between Sir Oliver and his proud and powerful neighbour.

The knight was well aware that the friendliness was more a seeming than a reality.  He was perfectly well acquainted with the rapacious character of the owner of Mortimer’s Keep, and with his covetous designs upon Chad.  He knew he was a secret foe, always on the watch for any cause of complaint against him; and he could often feel that it would take very little to stir up the old jealous strife and hostility.  Still, for the present an armed truce was the order of the day, and Sir Oliver, knowing his own loyalty, the cleanness of his hands, and the uprightness of his dealings, was not much afraid that his enemy would ever succeed in ousting him from his lands, or in gaining possession of the fair park and house of Chad for himself.

Sir Oliver was personally liked by the king, which was another point in his favour.  Without being a brilliant ruler like his successors, the seventh Henry had the faculty of choosing men of parts to place about him, and he had recognized in Sir Oliver Chadgrove certain qualities which he approved, and of which he wished to avail himself from time to time.  So the knight was frequently summoned to attend the king, and occasionally his wife went with him and appeared at court.  On this particular bright June night, both the master and the mistress were absent, being at Windsor with the king’s court; and the three boys ­the children with whom Providence had blessed them ­were the only members of the family sleeping beneath the roof of the great house.

The bedchamber of the three boys was a large, bare room looking out across the wooded park and ridge of hills, through which the little river of Chad meandered leisurely.  The boys would have preferred the courtyard for their lookout; but a lover of nature could not but be struck by the exceeding beauty of the view from this row of latticed casements.  And indeed the green expanse of home-like country had its charm even for high-spirited boys; and Edred, the second child of the house, often sat for hours together on the wide window ledge, gazing his fill at the shifting lights and shadows, and dreaming dreams of his own about what he saw.

The long room contained three small narrow beds, and very little furniture besides, In each of these beds a boy lay sleeping.  The moonlight streaming in through the uncurtained windows illuminated the whole room, and showed the curly heads, two dark and one fair, lying on the hard pillows, and shone so straight into the face of the eldest boy, that he stirred a little in his sleep, and half turned round.

He was a handsome lad of some eight or nine summers, with regular, strongly-marked features, and dark hair and eyes.  The brown hand and arm which lay exposed to view showed a muscular development that betokened great strength to come when the boy should be grown to manhood, and the face exhibited a like promise of strength of will and character.

Bertram Chadgrove, half aroused by the strong light of the moon in his face, opened his dark eyes sleepily for a few minutes, and then turned over towards the wall, and prepared to slumber again.  But before he had sunk to sleep he became further aroused by a very peculiar sound in the wall (as it seemed), close to which his bed was stationed; and instead of drowsing off again, he woke up with all his faculties on the alert, much as a watchdog does, and sitting up in bed he listened with all his ears.

Yes; there could be no mistaking it!  There was certainly a sound ­a muffled, curious sound ­within the very wall itself.  He pressed his ear against the panel, and his eyes shone brightly in the moonlight.

“It is some living thing,” he whispered to himself.  “Methinks it is surely some human thing.  Rats can make strange sounds, I know, but not such sounds as these.  A human being, and within the thickness of the wall!  How can such a thing be?  I never heard the like before.  It comes nearer ­I hear the groping of hands close beside mine ear.  Heaven send it be not a spirit from the other world!  I fear no mortal arm, of flesh and blood, but I desire not to see a visitor from the land of shadows.”

For a moment the boy’s flesh crept on his bones, and the hair of his head seemed to rise up from his scalp.  The groping of those phantom hands against the wall just beside him was enough to fill the stoutest heart with terror, in an age when superstition was always rife.  He strove to call to his brothers; but his voice was no more than a whisper, and his throat felt dry and parched.  Failing in making himself heard by his companions, he cowered down and drew the clothes right over his head, shivering with fear; and it was several minutes before his native courage came to his aid, and he felt ashamed of this paroxysm of terror.

“Fie upon me for a white-livered poltroon!” he cried, as the chill sweat of fear ceased to break out upon him, and he rallied his courage and his determination.

“I am no better than a maid!  Shame upon me for a coward!  I will not call to Edred and Julian.  It shall not be said of me, even by mine own self, that I dared not face even a spirit from the lower world alone.  I will find out what this sound is, and that without the help of any other living soul, else shall I despise myself forever!”

And with that resolve hot within him, Bertram threw back his coverings and prepared to rise from his bed, when his attention was arrested by some strange stealthy sounds close against the great carved chimney piece, on the same side of the room as his own bed.

His brothers slept on the opposite side of the big room.  None of the sounds which were so astonishing Bertram would penetrate to their sleeping senses.  Had the eldest boy not been awake at the beginning, he would scarce have heard the sound, so cautious and soft it was.  But this noise was something new.  It was like hands fumbling and groping in search of something.  Bertram held his breath to listen, growing hot and cold by turns.  But he drew some of his clothes cautiously towards him, and silently slipped into his nether garments.  He felt that if there were some unseen enemy striving in mysterious fashion to penetrate into this room, he could better meet him if he were clothed, however scantily, than he could do as he was; and he had ample time to put on even his doublet and hose, and to cover himself up again in bed, with his small poniard closely held in his hand, before there was any further development of that strange night’s drama which he was so breathlessly watching.

That something or somebody was seeking to find entrance into the room, he could not doubt for a moment; but, on the other hand, it seemed an incredible surmise, because the wall along which the unknown visitor had plainly felt his way was an outside wall, and if there really were any person thus moving, he must be walking along some secret passage in the thickness of the wall itself.

Such a thing was not impossible.  Bertram knew of more than one such passage contrived in the thickness of the wall in his ancient home, and all the family were acquainted with a certain secret hiding place that existed, cleverly contrived in the rambling old building, which, with its various levels and its wilderness of chimneys, might well defy detection, even with the most skilled search.  But the boy knew of no such passage or chamber in connection with their sleeping room, and he was sure his parents did not know of one either, or any member of the household.  Therefore it was immensely surprising to hear these uncanny sounds, and it was small wonder if they did give rise to a wave of supernatural terror, of which the boy was man enough to feel ashamed the moment reason had time to assert her sway.

“I have done no wrong; I confessed but three days since, and received blessing and absolution.  If any spirit were to come to visit this room, it could do me no hurt.  Besides, methinks a spirit would pass easily along the straightest place, and would not need to fumble thus as if in search of hidden bolts.

“Ha! what is that!  Methought some spring shot back.  Hist! here it comes!”

The boy lay back upon his bed, drawing the clothes silently up to his very eyes.  The moonlight had shifted just a little, and no longer illumined his face.  That was now in shadow, and would scarce reveal the fact that he was awake.  He lay perfectly still, scarce daring to draw his breath, and the next moment a strange thing happened.

The whole of one of the great carved pillars that supported the high mantle shelf swung noiselessly forward, and stood out at right angles to the wall.  From where he lay Bertram could not see, but he could well understand that when this was done a narrow doorway had been revealed, and the next moment a shadowy figure glided with noiseless steps into the room.

The figure was poorly clad in a doublet of serge much the worse for wear, and the moonlight showed a strangely haggard face and soiled and torn raiment.  Yet there was an air of dignity about the mysterious visitor which showed to the astonished boy that he must at some time have been in better circumstances, and lying quite still Bertram watched his movements with breathless attention.

With a quick, scared glance round him, as though afraid that even the silence might be the silence of treachery, the gaunt figure advanced with covert eagerness across the floor, leaving the door wide open behind him, as if to be ready for him should he desire to fly; and precipitating himself upon a ewer of cold water standing upon the floor, he drank and drank and drank as though he would never cease.

Plainly he was consumed by the most raging thirst.  Bertram had never seen anything but an exhausted horse after a burning summer’s chase in the forest drink in such a fashion.  And as he watched, all fear left him in a moment, for certainly no phantom could drink dry this great ewer of spring water; and if he had only a creature of flesh and blood to deal with, why, then there was certainly no cause for fear.

In place of dread and terror, a great pity welled up in the generous heart of the boy.  He had all the hatred for oppression and the chivalrous desire to help the oppressed that seem born in the hearts of the sons of British birth.  Who and what manner of man this was he did not know; but he was evidently some poor hunted creature, going in very fear of his life, and as such the boy pitied him from the very ground of his heart, and would gladly have helped him had he known how.

He lay for a few moments wondering and pondering.  Certainly his father was no foe to any man.  He could not be hiding from his displeasure.  The fugitive had rather taken refuge in his house; and if so, who better could be found to help him than the son of the owner?

“Our father and our mother alike have always taught us to befriend the stranger and the oppressed,” said the boy to himself.  “I will ask this stranger of himself, and see if I may befriend him.  I would gladly learn the trick of yon door.  It would be a goodly secret to have for our very own.”

It was plain that the fugitive, though aware that the room was tenanted, had satisfied himself that the occupants were all asleep.  He had ceased his frightened, furtive looks around him, and was quaffing the last of the water with an air of relish and relief that was good to see, pausing from time to time to stretch his limbs and to draw in great gulps of fresh air through the open window by which he stood, as a prisoner might do who had just been released from harsh captivity.

The moonlight shining upon his face showed it haggard, unkempt, and unshorn.  Plainly he had been several days in hiding; and by the gauntness of his figure, and the wolfish gleam in his eye as it roved quickly round the apartment, as if in search of food, it was plain that he was suffering keenly from hunger, too.

Bertram’s decision was quickly taken.  Whilst the man’s face was turned the other way, he quickly rose from his bed, and crossing the room with noiseless steps, laid a hand upon his arm.

“Hist, friend!” he whispered whilst the start given by the other, and the hoarse exclamation that broke from his lips, might have wakened sleepers who were not healthy, tired boys.  “Fear not; I am no foe to betray thee.  Tell me who and what thou art, and I will help thee all I may.”

The frightened eyes bent upon him bespoke a great terror.  The man’s voice died away as he tried to speak.  The only word Bertram could catch seemed to be a prayer that he would not betray him.

“Betray thee!  Never!  Why, good fellow, dost not know that the Chadgroves never betray those who trust in them?  Hence sometimes has trouble come upon them.  But before we talk, let me get thee food.  Methinks thou art well-nigh starved.”

“Food! food!  Ah, if thou wouldst give me that, young master, I would bless thee forever!  I have well-nigh perished with hunger and thirst.  Heaven be thanked that I have tasted water once again!”

“Come hither,” said Bertram cautiously.  “First close this narrow doorway, the secret of which thou must teach me in return for what I will do for thee, and then I will take thee to another chamber, where our voices will not disturb my brothers, and we can talk, and thou canst eat at ease.  I must know thy story, and I pledge myself to help thee.  Show me now the trick of this door.  I swear I will make no treacherous use of the secret.”

“I will trust thee, young sir.  I must needs do so, for without human help I must surely die.

“Seest thou this bunch of grapes so cunningly carved here?  This middle grape of the cluster will turn round in the fingers that know how to find and grasp it, and so turning and turning slowly, unlooses a bolt within ­here ­and so the whole woodwork swings out upon hinges and reveals the doorway.  Where that doorway leads I will show thee anon, if thou wouldst know the trick of the secret chamber at Chad that all men have now forgotten.  It may be that it will some day shelter thee or thine, for thou hast enemies abroad, even as I have.”

Bertram was intensely interested as he examined and mastered the simple yet clever contrivance of this masked door; but quickly remembering the starved condition of his companion, he led him cautiously into an adjoining room, where were a table and some scant furniture, and gliding down the staircase and along dim corridors just made visible by the reflected radiance of the moon, he reached the buttery, and armed himself with a venison pasty, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine.  Hurrying back with these, he soon had the satisfaction to see the stranger fall upon them with the keen relish of a man who has fasted to the last limits of endurance; and only after he had seen that the keen edge of his hunger had been satisfied did he try to learn more of him and his concerns.

“Now tell me, my good friend, who and what thou art,” said the boy, “and how comes it that thou seekest shelter here, and that thou knowest more of Chad than we its owners do.  That is the thing which has been perplexing me this long while.  I would fain hear from thy story how it comes about.”

“That is soon told, young sir.  Thou dost not, probably, remember the name of Warbel as that of some of the retainers of thy grandsire, but ­”

“I have heard the name,” said the boy.  “I have heard my father speak of them.  But I knew not that there were any of that name now living.”

“I am a Warbel ­I trow the last of my race.  I was born beyond the seas; but I was early brought to England, and I heard munch of the strife that encompassed Chad, because my father and grandfather both knew the place well, and would fain have gone back and lived in the old country had not fortune otherwise decreed it.  To make a long story short, they never returned to the place.  But when I was grown to man’s estate, I was offered a post in the household of the Lord of Mortimer, and as it was the best thing that had fallen in my way, I accepted it very gladly; for I knew that name, too, and I knew naught against the haughty lord, albeit my father and grandsire had not loved the lords of that name who lived before him.

“For many years I have been in his service, and for a while all went well with me.  I was made one of his gentlemen, and he seemed to favour me.  But of late there has been a change towards me ­I know not how or why.  I have offended him without intending it, and he has sometimes provoked me almost beyond endurance by his proud insolence.  But that I might have borne, for he was my master, had it not been for the insolence and insults I had to bear from others amongst his servants, and from one youth in particular, who seemed to me to be trying to oust me from my place, and to get himself the foremost place in his master’s favour.  That made my hot blood boil again and again, until at last the thing I believe they had long planned happened, and I had to fly for my life.”

The man paused, and Bertram, who was drinking in this story, asked eagerly:  “And what was that?”

“It was four days ago now, in the hall where we had supped.  We had drunk much wine in honour of our master’s birthday, and then we began playing and dicing to pass the time till we retired to bed.  My adversary was this youth whom I so greatly distrust.  As we played I detected him in unfair practices.  He vowed I lied, and called upon me to prove my words at the sword’s point; but in my fury and rage I sprang upon him with my bare hands, and would have wrung his neck ­the insolent popinjay ­had I been able.  As it was, we struggled and swayed together till my greater weight caused him to fall over backwards against one of the tables, and I verily believe his back is broken.  I know not whether he is living yet.  But as he is not only a great favourite with the Lord of Mortimer, but a distant kinsman to boot, no sooner was the deed done than all in the hall called to me to save myself by flight, for that the master would revenge such a death upon the perpetrator of it without mercy, and that if I wished to spare my neck I must fly without an instant’s delay.

“I knew this but too well myself.  The baron was a fearful man to meet in his rage.  Where to fly I knew not, but stay I could not.  I had bare time to rush to my room, don a dress that would not excite inquiry if I had to lie hid in the forest a few days.  I did not think flight would be so difficult a matter, but I knew that every moment spent in Mortimer’s Keep was at peril of my life; and I had but just made my escape through a small postern door before I heard the alarm bell ring, the drawbridge go up, and knew that the edict had gone forth for my instant apprehension.”

He paused with a slight shudder, and seemed to be listening intently.

“There is naught to fear here,” said Bertram.  “Tell me more of thy flight.”

“It was terrible,” answered the man.  “I had not looked to be hunted like the wild beasts of the forest; and yet an hour had not gone by before I heard, by the baying of the fierce hounds that are kept at Mortimer, that a hunting party had sallied forth; and I knew that I was the quarry.  I doubled and ran like any hare.  I knew the tricks of the wild things that have skill in baffling the dogs, and at last I reached the shelter of these walls, and ran there for protection.  I had thrown off the dogs at the last piece of water; and in the marshy ground the scent did not lie, and could not be picked up.  For a brief moment I was safe; but I was exhausted almost to death.  I could go no further.  I lay down beneath the shadow of some arbour within the sheltering precincts of Chad, and wondered what would become of me.”

“Yes, yes! and then ?”

“Then I remembered a story told me by my grandsire, years and years gone by, of a secret chamber at Chad, which had sheltered many a fugitive in the hour of peril.  Lying out in the soft night air, I recalled bit by bit all that I had been told ­the very drawings the old man had made to amuse me in a childish sickness, how the door opened, and how access was had to the chamber.  I knew that the country round would be hunted for days, and that I could never escape the malice of the Lord of Mortimer if I pursued my way to the sea.  He would overtake and kill me before I could make shift to gain that place of refuge.  But I bethought me of the secret chamber and its story, and methought I might slip in unseen did I but watch my opportunity, find my way up the winding stair to this room, and so to the secret chamber beyond.”

“And thou didst?”

“Ay, I did, the very next morning.  I saw thee and thy brothers sally forth a-hunting.  I saw the men follow in thy train.  I had heard that the knight and his lady with their retinue were absent at Windsor.  It needed no great skill to slip in unseen and gain the longed-for hiding place.  I had some food in my wallet.  I fondly hoped it would prove enough; but the sounds of hunting day by day all around have told me too well that I must not venture forth; and as this room was slept in by night, I feared to sally forth after food, lest I should be found and betrayed.  I had heard of the merciful nature of the master of Chad; but in his absence I knew not what his servants might say or do.  Doubtless there is a reward offered for my apprehension; and if that be so, how could I help fearing that any hired servant would betray me to my lord?”

“And thou thoughtest that servants slept in this room, and dared not show thyself either by day or night for fear thou mightest be betrayed!  And only hunger and thirst drove thee forth at length?”

“Ay.  And from my heart do I thank thee for thy kindness, young sir; and gladly will I show thee in return the trick of yon chamber.  If thou canst kindle a torch it will light us better, for the way thither is wondrous tortuous and narrow.”

Bertram had a little lantern ­a very treasured possession of his ­and after the usual tedious process of lighting had been gone through, he softly led the way back to the sleeping chamber.  With his own hands he undid the fastening of the door and saw it swing open, and then the two passed through into a very narrow aperture, which proved to be a long narrow gallery contrived in the thickness of the wall, which would only just admit of the passage of one figure at a time.

As they went in they drew to the door, and the fugitive showed his young companion how the bolt upon the inner side might be unloosed.

“It is easy enow in the light, but hard to feel in the black darkness,” he remarked; and then they pursued their devious way on and on through this strange passage, which wound up and down and in and out, and landed them at last at the foot of a spiral staircase, so narrow and squeezed in by masonry as to be barely serviceable for the purpose for which it was contrived.  It led them to a small door, through which they passed, to find themselves in a room of fair size but very low, and without any window, which seemed to occupy (as indeed it did) a portion of the house between two of the other floors, and was so contrived as to absolutely defy detection be the examination of the structure of the house never so exhaustive.  If the secret door were not found, nothing else would ever betray this cunning hiding-place.  Doubtless that was why, during the many changes that had prevailed at Chad during the past fifty years, the knowledge of its very existence had been lost.

“Air comes in freely through many cracks and slits,” explained the prisoner.  “It is not an unpleasant place save in the heat of the middle day, when it becomes like a veritable oven.  That is why my thirst was so unbearable.  There is a bed, as thou seest, and a chair and a few other things.  One could be comfortable here were it not for starvation and thirst.”

“I will feed thee so long as thou remainest hid,” cried the boy, with generous ardour.  “Thou shalt hide there by day, and by night shalt wander abroad an thou wilt, to breathe the air and stretch thy limbs.  My brothers and I will be thy friends.  Thou needst fear nothing now.  We will find out when it is safe for thee to leave thy retreat, and then thou shalt go forth without fear; or, if thou likest it better, thou shalt abide here till our father returns and take service with him.  I doubt not he would be glad enow to number a Warbel again amongst his trusty servants.”

The man’s face lighted up wonderfully.

“If he would do that,” he cried eagerly, “I should have no wish for anything better.  But my master, the baron ­”

“My father fears not the baron!” answered the boy proudly; “and, besides, his young kinsman is not dead.  We heard something of his side of the tale, and the youth is not even like to die now.  My father could protect thee from his wrath.  Stay here, and thou wilt have naught to fear.”

The fugitive took the lad’s hand and pressed it to his lips.

“I will serve thee for ever and ever for this boon,” he answered; and Bertram went back to his room, to lie awake and muse over what had befallen till the dawn broke and his brothers awoke to the new day.

To keep any secret from his two brothers was a thing impossible to Bertram, and before they had finished dressing that morning, Edred and Julian were both made aware of the strange adventure of the night previous.  Looking up to Bertram, as they both did, as the embodiment of prowess and courage, they did not grudge him his wonderful discovery, but they were eager to visit the fugitive themselves, and to carry him food and drink.

The days that followed were days of absolute enchantment to the boys, who delighted in waiting on Warbel and passing hours in his company.  He told them entrancing stories of adventure and peril.  He was devoted to his three youthful keepers, and wished for nothing better than to enter service with their father.

Later on, when all hue and cry after the missing man was over, and when Lord Mortimer’s young kinsman was so far recovered that it would be impossible to summon Warbel for any injury inflicted on him, Bertram conducted him to the hut of one of his father’s woodmen, who promised to keep him safe till the return of the knight.

When Sir Oliver came back, Warbel was brought to him, told a part of his tale, and was admitted readily as a member of the household; but the story of his incarceration in the secret chamber remained a secret known only to himself and the three boys.  So delightful a mystery as the existence of this unknown chamber was too precious to be parted with; and it was a compact between the boys and the man, who now became their chief attendant and body servant, that the trick of that door and the existence of that chamber were to be told to none, but kept as absolutely their own property.