“Well—­so long as I take only that which is mine own, others have no cause to grumble,” snapped Mary Antony, and turned her mind upon the making of a savoury broth, favoured by the Reverend Mother.

And all the while the Devil was whispering in the old woman’s ear:  “She will not return. . . .  Make thy broth, fool; but she will not be here to drink it. . . .  The World and the Flesh have called; the Reverend Mother will not come back. . . .  Stir the broth well, but flavour it to thine own taste.  Thou wilt sup on it thyself this night.  When the World and the Flesh call loudly enough, the best of women go to the Devil.”

“Liar!” said Mary Antony, brandishing her wooden spoon.  “Get thee behind me—­nay, rather, get thee in front of me!  I have had thee skulking behind me long enough.  Also in front of me, just now, being into the fire, thou wilt feel at home, Master Devil!  Only, put not thy tail into the Reverend Mother’s broth.”

When the White Ladies passed up from the Refectory, Mary Antony chanced to be polishing the panelling around the picture of Saint Mary Magdalen, beside the door of the Reverend Mother’s cell.

Presently Sister Mary Rebecca, arriving, lifted her hand to knock.

“Stay!” whispered Mary Antony.  “The Reverend Mother may not be disturbed.”

Sister Mary Rebecca veiled her scowl with a smile.

“And wherefore not, good Sister Antony?”

“‘Wherefore not’ is not my business,” retorted old Antony, as rudely as she knew how.  “It may be for special study; it may be for an hour of extra devotion; it may be only the very natural desire for a little respite from the sight of two such ugly faces as yours and mine.  But, be the reason what it may, Reverend Mother has locked her door, and sees nobody this even.”  After which old Antony proceeded to polish the outside of the Reverend Mother’s door panels.

Sister Mary Rebecca lifted her knuckles to rap; but old Antony’s not over clean clout was pushed each time between Sister Mary Rebecca’s tap, and the woodwork.

Muttering concerning the report she would make to the Prioress in the morning, Sister Mary Rebecca went to her cell.

When all was quiet, when every door was closed, the old lay-sister crept into the cloisters and, crouching in an archway just beyond the flight of steps leading to the underground way, watched and waited.

Storm clouds were gathering again, black on a purple sky.  The after-glow in the west had faded.  It was dark in the cloisters.  Thunder growled in the distance; an owl hooted in the Pieman’s tree.

Mary Antony’s old bones ached sorely, and her heart failed her.  She had sat so long in cramped positions, and she had not tasted food since the mid-day meal.

The Devil drew near, as he is wont to do, when those who have fasted long, seek to keep vigil.

“The Reverend Mother will not return,” he whispered.  “What wait you for?”