at Brotherhood. Well, 'tis settled. Go, make ready as best you can;
I must write. Stay; the sooner this Harflete is under ground the better.
Bid that sturdy fellow, Bolle, find the sexton of the church and help
dig his grave, for we will bury him at dawn. Now go, go, I tell you I
must write. Come back in an hour, and I will give you money for your
faring, also my secret messages."

Brother Martin bowed and went.

"A dangerous man," muttered the Abbot, as the door closed on him; "too
honest for our game, and too much an Englishman. That native spirit
peeps beneath his cowl; a monk should have no country and no kin. Well,
he will learn a trick or two in Spain, and I'll make sure they keep him
there a while. Now for my letters," and he sat down at the rude table
and began to write.

Half-an-hour later the door opened and Martin entered.

"What is it now?" asked the Abbot testily. "I said, 'Come back in an
hour.'"

"Aye, you said that, but I have good news for you that I thought you
might like to hear."

"Out with it, then, man. It's scarce now-a-days. Have they found those
jewels? No, how could they? the place still flares," and he glanced
through the window-place. "What's the news?"

"Better than jewels. Christopher Harflete is not dead. While I was
praying over him he turned his head and muttered. I think he is only
stunned. You are skilled in medicine; come, look at him."

A minute later and the Abbot knelt over the senseless form of
Christopher where it lay on the filthy floor of the neat-house. By the
light of the lanterns with deft fingers he felt his wounded head, from
which the shattered casque had been removed, and afterwards his heart
and pulse.

"The skull is cut, but not broken," he said. "My judgment is that though
he may lie unsensed for days, if fed and tended this man will live,
being so young and strong. But if left alone in this cold place he will
be dead by morning, and perhaps he is better dead," and he looked at
Martin.

"That would be murder indeed," answered the secretary. "Come, let us
bear him to the fire and pour milk down his throat. We may save him yet.
Lift you his feet and I will take his head."

The Abbot did so, not very willingly, as it seemed to Martin, but rather
as one who has no choice.

Half-an-hour later, when the hurts of Christopher had been dressed
with ointment and bound up, and milk poured down his throat, which he
swallowed although he was so senseless, the Abbot