Emlyn. That's her blood.
If her mother had not been a gypsy witch, she wouldn't have married a
Spaniard when every man in the place was after her for her beautiful
eyes. Emlyn is a witch too, or was, for they say she is dead; but I
can't think it, she isn't the sort that dies. Still, she must be dead,
and that's good for my soul. Oh! miserable man, what are you thinking?
Get behind me, Satan, if you can find room. A grave is no place for you,
Satan, but I wish you were in it with me, Emlyn. You _must_ have been a
witch, since, after you, I could never fancy any other woman, which is
against nature, for all's fish that comes to a man's net. Evidently a
witch of the worst sort, but, my darling, witch or no I wish you weren't
dead, and I'll break that Abbot's neck for you yet, if it costs me my
soul. Oh! Emlyn, my darling, my darling, do you remember how we kissed
in the copse by the river? Never was there a woman who could love like
you."

So he moaned on, rocking himself to and fro on the legs of the corpse,
till at length a wild ray from the red, risen sun crept into the
darksome hole, lighting first of all upon a mouldering skull which Bolle
had thrown back among the soil. He rose up and pitched it out with a
word that should not have passed the lips of a lay-brother, even as such
thoughts should not have passed his mind. Then he set himself to a task
which he had planned in the intervals of his amorous meditations--a
somewhat grizzly task.

Drawing his knife from its sheath, he cut the rough stitching of the
grave-clothes, and, with numb hands, dragged them away from the body's
head.

The light went out behind a cloud, but, not to waste time, he began to
feel the face.

"Sir Christopher's nose wasn't broken," he muttered to himself, "unless
it were in that last fray, and then the bone would be loose, and this is
stiff. No, no, he had a very pretty nose."

The light came again, and Thomas peered down at the dead face beneath
him; then suddenly burst into a hoarse laugh.

"By all the saints! here's another of our Spaniard's tricks. It is
drunken Andrew the Scotchman, turned into a dead English knight.
Christopher killed him, and now he is Christopher. But where's
Christopher?"

He thought a little while, then, jumping out of the grave, began to fill
it in with all his might.

"You're Christopher," he said; "well, stop Christopher until I can prove
you're Andrew. Good-bye, Sir Andrew Christopher; I am off to