jewels in their case, for Maldon seeks them more even than your lands,
and with them all the money I can find. Also I have bid the sewing-girl
make a pack of some garments. Come now, come, for that Abbot is hungry
and will be stirring. There is no time for talk."

Three hours later in the red glow of the sunset Christopher Harflete,
watching at his door, saw two women riding towards him across the snow,
and knew them while they were yet far off.

"It is true, then," he said to Father Roger Necton, the old clergyman of
Cranwell, whom he had summoned from the vicarage. "I thought that fool
of a messenger must be drunk. What can have chanced, Father?"

"Death, I think, my son, for sure naught else would bring the Lady
Cicely here unaccompanied save by a waiting-woman. The question is--what
will happen now?" and he glanced sideways at him.

"I know well if I can get my way," answered Christopher, with a merry
laugh. "Say now, Father, if it should so be that this lady were willing,
could you marry us?"

"Without a doubt, my son, with the consent of the parents;" and again he
looked at him.

"And if there were no parents?"

"Then with the consent of the guardian, the bride being under age."

"And if no guardian had been declared or admitted?"

"Then such a marriage duly solemnized, being a sacrament of the Church,
would hold fast until the crack of doom unless the Pope annulled it,
and, as you know, the Pope is out of favour in this realm on this very
matter of marriage. Let me explain the law to you, ecclesiastic and
civil----"

But Christopher was already running towards the gate, so the old
parson's lecture remained undelivered.

The two met in the snow, Emlyn Stower riding on ahead and leaving them
together.

"What is it, sweetest?" he asked. "What is it?"

"Oh! Christopher," she answered, weeping, "my poor father is
dead--murdered, or so says Emlyn."

"Murdered! By whom?"

"By the Abbot of Blossholme's soldiers--so says Emlyn, yonder in the
forest last eve. And the Abbot is coming to Shefton to declare me his
ward and thrust me into the Nunnery--that was Emlyn's tale. And so,
although it is a strange thing to do, having none to protect me, I have
fled to you--because Emlyn said I ought."

"She is a wise woman, Emlyn," broke in Christopher; "I always thought
well of her judgment. But did you only come to me because Emlyn told
you?"

"Not altogether, Christopher. I came because I am distraught,