n, and we will tell you all."

Without waiting for an answer he entered with the others, pushed to the
massive door and bolted it again.

"What's this? A woman?" said the old priest. "Eve of Clavering, by the
Saints!"

"Yes," she answered calmly, though her teeth chattered; "Eve of
Clavering, Eve the Red, this time with the blood of men, soaked with the
waters of the Blythe, frozen with the snows of Dunwich Heath, where
she has lain hid for hours with a furze bush for shelter. Eve who seeks
shriving, a dry rag for her back, a morsel for her lips, and fire to
warm her, which in the Name of Christ and of charity she prays you will
not refuse to her."

So she spoke, and laughed recklessly.

Almost before she had finished her wild words the old man, who looked
what he was, a knight arrayed in priestly robes, had run to a door at
the end of the hall and was calling through it, "Mother Agnes! Mother
Agnes!"

"Be not so hasty, Sir Andrew," answered a shrill voice. "A posset must
have time to boil. It is meet now that you wear a tonsure that you who
are no longer a centurion should forget these 'Come, and he cometh,'
ways. When the water's hot----"

The rest of that speech was lost, for Father Arnold, muttering some word
belonging to his "centurion" days, dived into the kitchen, to reappear
presently dragging a little withered old woman after him who was dressed
in a robe of conventual make.

"Peace, Mother Agnes, peace!" he said. "Take this lady, dry her, array
her in your best gown, give her food, warm her, and bring her back to
me. Short? What care I if the robe be short? Obey, or it will not be
come, and he cometh, but go and she goeth, and then who will shelter one
who talks so much?"

He thrust the pair of them through the kitchen door and, returning, led
Hugh and Grey Dick up a broad oak stair to what had been the guest-hall
of the Preceptory on its first floor.

It was a very great chamber where, before their Order was dispersed, all
the Knights Templar had been wont to dine with those who visited them at
times of festival. Tattered banners still hung among the cobwebs of the
ancient roof, the shields of past masters with stately blazonings were
carved in stone upon the walls. But of all this departed splendour but
little could be seen, since the place was lit only by a single lamp of
whale's oil and a fire that burned upon the wide stone hearth, a great
fire, since Father Arnold, who had spent many years o