"Assuredly it is. Thou shalt help us, nor shalt thou be dishonoured in
the deed."

"An you will lead me into no evil I will consent, but I fear to trust
thee, thou wert ever rash and headstrong."

Two days later, ere the Sabbath mass began, there stole into the
little chapel of Haddon the figure of a man, which ever since the
break of day might have been observed crouched down at the bottom of
the mighty brewing vat. Had anyone cared to look under the cloth which
covered it they would assuredly have discovered him there.

The door of the sanctuary had just been thrown open, somewhat later
than usual, for the servants had evidently overslept themselves, and
were now to be heard throwing the shutters open, and bustling about in
the kitchens, trying to make up for the time they had lost.

The man, by his garb, might have been taken for a labourer. His black
hair hung in matted patches upon his shoulders; his clothes were torn
and patched, and the coarse leather jerkin he wore, which was almost
ready to be replaced by a new one, gave unmistakable tokens that the
wearer was a man of toil.

In spite of all these signs the face of the man was handsome, and not
without traces of hauteur. His hands were red and rough, but not hard
and horny as those of other craftsmen were; and his whole bearing
would have impressed a critical observer that this man at least was
worthier of a better lot.

Yes, it was John Manners. He was bearding the lion in his den.