not wished her death. Indeed, he was fond of the girl, whom he had
known from a child, and her innocent blood was a weight that he ill
could bear, he who at heart always shrank from the shedding of blood.
Still, Heaven had killed her, not he, and the matter could not now be
mended. Also, as she was dead, her inheritance would, he thought, fall
into his hands without further trouble, for he--a mitred Abbot with a
seat among the Lords of the realm--had friends in London, who, for a
fee, could stifle inquiry into all this far-off business.

No, no, he must not be faint-hearted, who, after all, had much for which
to be thankful. Meanwhile the cause went on--that great cause of the
threatened Church to which he had devoted his life. Henry the heretic
would fall; the Spanish Emperor, whose spy he was and who loved him
well, would invade and take England. He would yet live to see the Holy
Inquisition at work at Westminster, and himself--yes, himself; had it
not been hinted to him?--enthroned at Canterbury, the Cardinal's red hat
he coveted upon his head, and--oh, glorious thought!--perhaps afterwards
wearing the triple crown at Rome.

Rain was falling heavily when the Abbot, with his escort of two monks
and half-a-dozen men-at-arms, rode up to Cranwell. The house was now but
a smoking heap of ashes, mingled with charred beams and burnt clay, in
the midst of which, scarcely visible through the clouds of steam
caused by the falling rain, rose the grim old Norman tower, for on its
stonework the flames had beat vainly.

"Why have we come here?" asked one of the monks, surveying the dismal
scene with a shudder.

"To seek the bodies of the Lady Cicely and her woman, and give them
Christian burial," answered the Abbot.

"After bringing them to a most unchristian death," muttered the monk to
himself, then added aloud, "You were ever charitable, my Lord Abbot, and
though she defied you, such is that noble lady's due. As for the nurse
Emlyn, she was a witch, and did but come to the end that she deserved,
if she be really dead."

"What mean you?" asked the Abbot sharply.

"I mean that, being a witch, the fire may have turned from her."

"Pray God, then, that it turned from her mistress also! But it cannot
be. Only a fiend could have lived in the heat of that furnace; look,
even the tower is gutted."

"No, it cannot be," answered the monk; "so, since we shall never find
them, let us chant the Burial Office over this great g