“Had you told any?” asked his father.

“Only Dr. Bocking.  Then I asked her, was I to go there; but she said nothing for a while; and her eyes wandered about; and she began to speak of black monks going this way and that; and she spoke of a prior, and of his ring; it was of gold, she said, with figures engraved on it.  You know the ring the Prior wears?” he added, looking eagerly at his father.

Sir James nodded.

“I know it,” he said.  “Well?”

“Well, I asked her again, was I to go there; and then she looked at me up and down; I was in my travelling suit; but she said she saw my cowl and its hanging sleeves, and an antiphoner in my hands; and then her face grew dreadful and afraid again, and she cried out and fell forward; and Dr. Bocking led us out from the chapel.”

There was a long silence as Chris ended and leaned back again, taking up a bunch of raisins.  Ralph sighed once as if wearied out, and his mother put her hand on his sleeve.  Then at last Sir James spoke.

“You have heard the story,” he said, and then paused; but there was no answer.  At last the chaplain spoke from his place.

“It is all as Chris said,” he began, “I was there and heard it.  If the woman is not from God, she is one of Satan’s own; and it is hard to think that Satan would tell us of the sacraments and bid us use them greedily, and if she is from God—­” he stopped again.

The knight nodded at him.

“And you, sweetheart?” he said to his wife.

She turned to him slowly.

“You know what I think,” she said.  “If Chris believes it, he must go, I suppose.”

“And you, Ralph?”

Ralph raised himself in his chair.

“Do you wish me to say what I think?” he asked deliberately, “or what Chris wishes me to say?  I will do either.”

Chris made a quick movement of his head; but his father answered for him.

“We wish you to say what you think,” he said quietly.

“Well, then,” said Ralph, “it is this.  I cannot agree with the father.  I think the woman is neither of God nor Satan; but that she speaks of her own heart, and of Dr. Bocking’s.  I believe they are a couple of knaves—­clever knaves, I will grant, though perhaps the woman is something of a fool too; for she deceives persons as wise even as Mr. Carleton here by speaking of shrift and the like; and so she does the priests’ will, and hopes to get gain for them and herself.  I am not alone in thinking this—­there are many in town who think with me, and holy persons too.”

“Is Master Cromwell one of them?” put in Chris bitterly.

Ralph raised his eyebrows a little.

“There is no use in sneering,” he said, “but Master Cromwell is one of them.  I suppose I ought not to speak of this; but I know you will not speak of it again; and I can tell you of my own knowledge that the Holy Maid will not be at St. Sepulchre’s much longer.”