consult with his companions. For a
while they hesitated, apparently still meditating attack, but in the end
rode away and were seen no more.

Bolle wished to follow and fall on them with such men as he had, but the
cautious Jacob Smith forbade it, fearing lest he should tumble into
some ambush and be killed or captured with his people, leaving the place
defenceless.

So the afternoon went by, and ere evening closed in they had so much
strength that there was no more cause for fear of an attack from the
Abbey, whose garrison they learned amounted to not over fifty men and a
few monks, for most of these had fled.

That night Cicely with Emlyn and old Jacob were seated in the long upper
room where her father, Sir John Foterell, had once surprised Christopher
paying his court to her, when Bolle entered, followed by a man with a
hang-dog look who was wrapped in a sheepskin coat which seemed to become
him very ill.

"Who is this, friend?" asked Jacob.

"An old companion of mine, your worship, a monk of Blossholme who is
weary of Grace and its pilgrimages, and seeks the King's comfort and
pardon, which I have made bold to promise to him."

"Good," said Jacob, "I'll enter his name, and if he remains faithful
your promise shall be kept. But why do you bring him here?"

"Because he bears tidings."

Now something in Bolle's voice caused Cicely, who was brooding apart, to
look up sharply and say--

"Speak, and be swift."

"My Lady," began the man in a slow voice, "I, who am named Basil in
religion, have fled the Abbey because, although a monk, I am true to
the King, and moreover have suffered much from the Abbot, who has just
returned raging, having met with some reverse out Lincoln way, I know
not what. My news is that your lord, Sir Christopher Harflete, and his
servant Jeffrey Stokes are prisoners in the Abbey dungeons, whither they
were brought last night by a company of the rebels who had captured them
and afterwards rode on."

"Prisoners!" exclaimed Cicely. "Then he is not dead or wounded? At least
he is whole and safe?"

"Aye, my Lady, whole and safe as a mouse in the paws of a cat before it
is eaten."

The blood left Cicely's cheeks. In her mind's eye she saw Abbot Maldon
turned into a great cat with a monk's head and patting Christopher with
his claws.

"My fault, my fault!" she said in a heavy voice. "Oh, if I had not
called him he would have escaped. Would that I had been stricken dumb!"

"I don't t