moat. He scrambled out on the farther side, shook himself like a dog,
and advanced slowly to where Bolle and the women stood upon the Abbey
green out of arrow-shot from the walls. Indeed, Cicely, who was weak
with dread and wretchedness, leaned against the oaken stake that
had never been removed, to which once she was tied to be burned for
witchcraft.

"Who is that man?" said Emlyn to her.

Cicely scanned the gaunt, bearded figure who walked haltingly like one
that is sick.

"I know not--yes, yes, he puts me in mind of Jeffrey Stokes!"

"Jeffrey it is and no other," said Emlyn, nodding her head. "Now what
news does he bear, I wonder?"

Cicely made no reply, only clung to her stake and waited, with just such
a heart as once she had waited there while the Abbey cook blew up his
brands to fire her faggots. Jeffrey was opposite to her now; his sunken
eyes fell upon her, and at the sight his bearded chin dropped, making
his face look even more long and hollow than it had before.

"Ah!" he said, speaking to himself, "many wars and journeyings, months
in an infidel galley, three days with not enough food to feed a rat and
a bath in November water! Well, such things, to say nothing of a worse,
turn men's brains. Yet to think that I should live to see a daylight
ghost in homely Blossholme, who never met with one before."

Still staring he shook the water from his beard, then added,
"Lay-brother or Captain Thomas Bolle, whichever you may be now-a-days,
if you're not a ghost also, give me a quart of strong ale and a loaf of
bread, for I'm empty as a gutted herring, and floating heavenward, so to
speak, who would stick upon this scurvy earth."

"Jeffrey, Jeffrey," broke in Cicely, "what news of your master? Emlyn,
tell him that we still live. He does not understand."

"Oh, you still live, do you?" he added slowly. "So the fire could not
burn you after all, or Emlyn either. Well, then, there's hope for
every one, and perhaps hunger and Abbot Maldon's knives cannot kill
Christopher Harflete."

"He lives, then, and is well?"

"He lives and is as well as a man may be after a three days' fast in a
black dungeon that is somewhat damp. Here's a writing on the matter for
the captain of this company," and, taking a letter from the folds of the
white flag in which it had been fastened, he handed it to Bolle, who, as
he could not read, passed it on to Jacob Smith. Just then a lad brought
the ale for which Jeffrey had asked, and