out something to the
Abbot, who sat on horseback near to him. He looked and saw also.

"Yield, Sir Christopher," he shouted; "the Lady Cicely burns. Yield,
that we may save her."

Christopher turned and saw also. For a moment he hesitated, then wheeled
round to run across the courtyard. Too late, for as he came the flames
burst through the main roof of the house, and the timber front of it,
blazing furiously, fell outwards, blocking the doorway, so that the
place became a furnace into which none might enter and live.

Now a madness seemed to take hold of him. For a moment he stared up at
the figures of the two women standing high above the rolling smoke and
wrapping flame. Then, with his three men, he charged with a roar into
the crowd of soldiers who had followed him into the courtyard, striving,
it would seem, to cut his way to the Abbot, who lurked behind. It was
a dreadful sight, for he and those with him fought furiously, and many
went down. Presently, of the four only Christopher was left upon his
feet. Swords and spears smote upon his armour, but he did not fall;
it was those in front of him who fell. A great fellow with an axe
got behind him and struck with all his might upon his helm. The sword
dropped from Harflete's hand; slowly he turned about, looked upward,
then stretched out his arms and fell heavily to earth.

The Abbot leapt from his horse and ran to him, kneeling at his side.

"Dead!" he cried, and began to shrive his passing soul, or so it seemed.

"Dead," repeated Emlyn, "and a gallant death!"

"Dead!" wailed Cicely, in so terrible a voice that all below heard it.
"Dead, dead!" and sank senseless on Emlyn's breast.

At that moment the rest of the roof fell in, hiding the tower in spouts
and veils of flame. Here they might not stay if they would live. Lifting
her mistress in her strong arms, as she was wont to do when she was
little, Emlyn found the head of the stair, so that when the wind blew
the smoke aside for an instant, those below saw that both had vanished,
as they thought withered in the fire.

"Now you can enter on the Shefton lands, Abbot," cried a voice from the
darkness of the gateway, though in the turmoil none knew who spoke; "but
not for all England would I bear that innocent blood!"

The Abbot's face turned ghastly, and though it was hot enough in that
courtyard his teeth chattered.

"It is on the head of this woman-thief," he exclaimed with an effort,
looking down on Chr