eaded with him he would thrust you
away, saying, 'Get thee behind me, Satan!'"

"I believe it, and I am proud," muttered Cicely. "If need be, let
Harflete die, we'll keep his honour and our own lest he should live to
curse us. Go on."

"Well, they led me to the Abbot, who gave me that letter which you have,
and bade me take it and tell the case to whoever commanded here. Then he
lifted up his hand and, laying it on the crucifix about his neck, swore
that this was no idle threat, but that unless his terms were taken,
Harflete should hang from the tower top at to-morrow's dawn, adding,
though I knew not what he meant, 'I think you'll find one yonder who
will listen to that reasoning.' Now he was dismissing me when a soldier
said--

"'Is it wise to free this Stokes? You forget, my Lord Abbot, that he
is alleged to have witnessed a certain slaying yonder in the forest and
will bear evidence.' 'Aye,' answered Maldon, 'I had forgotten who in
this press remembered only that no other man would be believed. Still,
perhaps it would be best to choose a different messenger and to silence
this fellow at once. Write down that Jeffrey Stokes, a prisoner, strove
to escape and was killed by the guards in self-defence. Take him hence
and let me hear no more.'

"Now my blood went cold, although I strove to look as careless as a man
may on an empty stomach after three days in the dark, and cursed him
prettily in Spanish to his face. Then, as they were haling me off,
Brother Martin--do you remember him? he was our companion in some
troubles over-seas--stepped forward out of the shadow and said, 'Of what
use is it, Abbot, to stain your soul with so foul a murder? Since John
Foterell died the King has many things to lay to your account, and any
one of them will hang you. Should you fall into his hands, he'll not
hark back to Foterell's death, if, indeed, you were to blame in that
matter.'

"'You speak roughly, Brother,' answered the Abbot; 'and acts of war are
not murder, though perchance afterwards you might say they were, to
save your own skin, or others might. Well, if so, there's wisdom in your
words. Touch not the man. Give him the letter and thrust him into the
moat to swim it. His lies can make no odds in the count against us.'

"Well, they did so, and I came here, as you saw, to find you living,
and now I understand why Maldon thought that Harflete's life is worth so
much," and, having done his tale, once more Jeffrey began to