“It is wisely thought, and shall be done,” she replied.  “And now, my dear nephew, tell me all about my poor sister.  Can she not be regained to her home, rescued from the wretched life of the woods?”

“I fear it is useless, while Grimbeard yet lives; besides a wife’s first duty is to her husband.  I live in hope that he may be brought to submit to the authorities whom God has seen fit to place in trust over this land:  then, if his pardon can be secured, all will be well.”

What further they said we may not relate.  Only that, with her ear glued to the door, sat one of the tire women, drinking in all their conversation from the adjoining closet.

What could it avail to the wench?  Nought personally, perhaps, but the lady was surrounded by the creatures of Drogo, and hence what she said in the supposed secrecy of her bower (boudoir), might soon be reported in his ear, and stimulate him to action.

It was a dismal dell—­no sunlight penetrated its dark recesses, overgrown with vegetation, overshadowed by dark pines, filled with nettles and brambles.  Herein dwelt one of those wretched women supposed to hold special communion with Satan by the credulous peasantry, and whose natural death was the stake.  But often they were spared a long time, and sometimes, by accident, died in their beds.  Love charms, philtres, she sold, and it was said dealt in poisons, but the fact was never brought home to her, or Sir Nicholas would have hanged, if not have burned her.  As it was she owed a longer spell of time, wherein to work evil, to the intercession of the Lady Sybil.

And now she was about to return evil for good.  A dark visitor, a young man veiled in a cloak, sought her cell one day.  There was a long conference.  He departed, concealing a small phial in his pouch.  She dug a hole in the earth, after he was gone, and buried something he had left behind.

The reader must imagine the rest.

It was again the Sunday morn, and Martin preached for the last time before Lady Sybil at Walderne Castle, and spent the day there.  And in the evening the lady summoned him to another private conference.  She told him she felt it very much on her mind to have all things in order, in case of sudden death, such as had befallen her dear lord, Sir Nicholas:  and therefore had arranged to go on the morrow to Lewes, to see Earl Warrenne of Lewes Castle, with whom she would take advice how to secure Walderne Castle and its estates for Hubert in the event of his return.  She would also see the old Father Roger at the priory, and together they would shape out some plan.

At length the old dame said: 

“Martin, my beloved nephew, wilt thou fetch my sleeping potion from the hall?  I shall take it more willingly from thine hands.  The butler places it nightly on the sideboard.”

Let us precede Martin by only one minute.

Ah!  What is that shadow on the stairs?  The likeness of one that pours the contents of a small phial into a goblet.  A light is behind him and casts the shadow—­The thing vanishes as Martin turns the corner.  The sleeping potion was there, as left by the majordomo for his mistress, ere he retired early to rest, to be up with the lark.