y. Now you have my
offer--answer."

"And what if I refuse this same generous offer to surrender her whom I
hold dearer than a thousand lives?"

"Then, by virtue of my rights and authority, I will take her by force,
Christopher Harflete, and if harm should happen to come to you, now or
hereafter, on your own head be it."

At this Christopher's rage broke out.

"Do you dare to threaten me, a loyal Englishman, you false priest and
foreign traitor," he shouted, "whom all men know to be in the pay of
Spain, and using the cover of a monk's dress to plot against the land on
which you fatten like a horse-leech? Why was John Foterell murdered in
the forest two nights gone? You won't answer? Then I will. Because
he rode to Court to prove the truth about you and your treachery, and
therefore you butchered him. Why do you claim my wife as your ward?
Because you wish to steal her lands and goods to feed your plots and
luxury. You think you have bought friends at Court, and that for money's
sake those in power there will turn a blind eye to your crimes. So it
may be for a while; but wait, wait. All eyes are not blind yonder, nor
all ears deaf. That head of yours shall yet be lifted higher than you
think--so high that it sticks upon the top of Blossholme Towers, a
warning to all who would sell England to her enemies. John Foterell lies
dead with your knave's arrow in his throat, but Jeffrey Stokes is away
with the writings. And now do your worst, Clement Maldon. If you want my
wife, come take her."

The Abbot listened, listened intently, drinking in every ominous word.
His swarthy face went white with fear, then turned black with rage. The
veins upon his forehead gathered into knots; even from that distance
Christopher could see them. He looked so evil that his countenance
became twisted and ridiculous, and Christopher, noting it, burst into
one of his hearty laughs.

The Abbot, who was not accustomed to mockery, whispered something to the
two men who were with him, whereon they lifted the crossbows which they
carried and pulled trigger. One quarel went wide and hit the wall of the
house behind, where it stuck fast in the joints of the stud-work. But
the other, better aimed, smote Christopher above the heart, causing him
to stagger, but being shot from below and turned by the mail he wore
glanced upwards over his left shoulder. The men, seeing that he was
unhurt, pulled their horses round and galloped off, but Christopher,
set