“’Tis Father Arnold’s room,” said Eve.  “He sits there at his books.  I’ll knock and call him, but do you two go lay hold of the ring of the church door,” and she nodded toward a grey pile that stood near by.  “Then none can touch you, and how know we who may be in this house?”

“I’ll go no step further,” answered Hugh sullenly.  “All this Temple ground is sanctuary, or at least we will risk it.”  And, seizing the knocker, he hammered at the door.

The light in the window vanished, and presently they heard a sound of creaking bolts.  Then the door opened, revealing a tall man, white-bearded, ancient, and clad in a frayed, furred robe worn over a priest’s cassock, who held a lantern in his hand.

“Who knocks?” he asked.  “Does some soul pass that you disturb me after curfew?”

“Ay, Father Andrew,” answered Hugh, “souls have passed, and souls are near to passing.  Let us in, 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.