ssions, Cicely with her
own hand gave to a bold and trusty man, charged to ask an answer, who
departed, carrying the white flag and wearing a steel shirt beneath his
doublet, for fear of treachery.

When he had gone they sent for Jeffrey, who arrived clad in dry garments
and still eating, for his hunger was that of a wolf.

"Tell us all," said Cicely.

"It will be a long story if I begin at the beginning, Lady. When your
worshipful father, Sir John, and I rode away from Shefton on the day of
his murder----"

"Nay, nay," interrupted Cicely, "that may stand, we have no time. My
lord and you escaped from Lincoln, did you not, and, as we saw, were
taken in the forest?"

"Aye, Lady. Some tricksy spirit called out with your voice and he heard
and pulled rein, and so they came on to us and overwhelmed us, though
without hurt as it chanced. Then they brought us to the Abbey and thrust
us into that accursed dungeon, where, save for a little bread and water,
we have starved for three days in the dark. That is all the tale."

"How, then, did you come out, Jeffrey?"

"Thus, my Lady. Something over an hour ago a monk and three guards
unlocked the dungeon door. While we blinked at his lantern, like owls
in the sunlight, the monk said that the Abbot purposed to send me to the
camp of the King's party to offer Christopher Harflete's life against
the lives of all of them. He told him, Harflete, also, that he had
brought ink and paper and that if he wished to save himself he would do
well to write a letter praying that this offer might be accepted, since
otherwise he would certainly die at dawn."

"And what said my husband?" asked Cicely, leaning forward.

"What said he? Why, he laughed in their faces and told them that first
he would cut off his hand. On this they haled me out of the dungeon
roughly enough, for I would have stayed there with him to the end. But
as the door closed he shouted after me, 'Tell the King's officers to
burn this rats' nest and take no heed of Christopher Harflete, who
desires to die!'"

"Why does he desire to die?" asked Cicely again.

"Because he thinks his wife dead, Mistress, as I did, and believes that
in the forest he heard her voice calling him to join her."

"Oh God! oh God!" moaned Cicely; "I shall be his death."

"Not so," answered Jeffrey. "Do you know so little of Christopher
Harflete that you think he would sell the King's cause to gain his own
life? Why, if you yourself came and pl