and cowl of a nun opened what was left of the
wicket-gate in the one unbattered wall. A trace of the luxury that had
dwelt under the gilded spires survived in her robes, which had been of a
royal purple and embroidered with silken flowers; but the voice of Time
and of Ruin spoke from them also, for the purple was faded to a rusty
brown, and the silken embroideries were threadbare. She struck a note in
perfect harmony with her surroundings, as she stood under the crumbling
arch, peering out into the flowering lane.

Stretching away from her feet in dewy freshness, it made a green link
between the herb-garden of St. Mildred's and the highway of the Watling
Street. Like the straggling hedges that were half buried under a net
of wild roses, red and white, the path was half effaced by grass; but
beyond, her eye could follow the straight line of the great Roman road
over marsh and meadow and hill-top. If grass had gathered there also,
during the Anglo-Saxon times, there were no traces of it now, in the
days of Edmund Ironside when Canute of Denmark was leading his war-host
back and forth over its stones. Between the dark walls of oak and beech,
it gleamed as white as the Milky Way. The nun was able to trace its
course up the slope of the last hill. Just beyond the crest, a pall of
smoke was spread over a burning village. Though it was miles away, it
seemed to her that the wind brought cries of anguish to her ear, and
prayers for mercy. Shivering, she turned her face back to the desolate
peace of the ruins.

"Now is it clear to all men why a bloody cloud was hung over the land
in the year that Ethelred came to the throne," she said. "I feel as the
blessed dead might feel should they be forced to leave the shelter of
their graves and look out upon the world."

Rising from its knees beside a bed of herbs, a second figure in faded
robes approached the gate. Sister Sexberga was very old, much older than
her companion, and her face was a wrinkled parchment whereon Time had
written some terrible lessons.

She said gently, "We are one with the dead, beloved sister. Those who
lie under the chancel lay no safer than we, last night, though the
Pagans' passing tread shook the ground we lay on, and their songs broke
our slumbers. Let us cease not to give thanks to Him who has spread over
us the peace of the grave."

The shadows deepened in the eyes of Sister Wynfreda as she turned them
back toward the lane, for her patience was not