they rode away from Blythburgh Manor and passed through Dunwich with much pomp, where the citizens of that town, who were friends of the de Cressis, stared at them with no kind eyes.  Indeed, one of these as they crossed the market-place called to them to be careful not to meet Hugh de Cressi and Grey Dick upon their journey, lest there should be more midnight burials and men-at-arms turned into foot-soldiers, whereat all about him laughed rudely.

But Acour did not laugh.  He ground his teeth and said into the ear of Nicholas: 

“Register this vow for me, priest, that in payment for that jest I’ll sack and burn Dunwich when our army comes, and give its men and children to the sword and its women to the soldiers.”

“It shall be done, lord,” answered the chaplain, “and should your heart soften at the appointed time I’ll put you in memory of this solemn oath.”

At the great house of the Mayor of Dunwich Sir Edmund drew rein and demanded to see him.  Presently this Mayor, a timid, uncertain-looking man, came in his robes of office and asked anxiously what might be the cause of this message and why an armed band halted at his gate.

“For no ill purpose, sir,” answered Acour, “though little of justice have I found at your hands, who, therefore, must seek it at the Court of my liege lord, King Edward.  All I ask of you is that you will cause this letter to be delivered safely to the lady Eve Clavering, who lies in sanctuary at the Preceptory of St. Mary and St. John.  It is one of farewell, since it seems that this lady who, by her own will and her father’s, was my affianced, wishes to break troth, and I am not a man who needs an unwilling bride.  I’d deliver it myself only that old knave, half priest and half knight, but neither good——­”

“You’d best speak no ill of Sir Andrew Arnold here,” said a voice in the crowd.

“Only the master of the Preceptory,” went on Acour, changing his tone somewhat, “might take fright and think I wished to violate his sanctuary if I came there with thirty spears at my back.”

“And no fool either,” said the voice, “seeing that they are French spears and his is an English sanctuary.”

“Therefore,” continued Acour, “I pray you, deliver the letter.  Perchance when we meet again, Master Mayor,” he added with a venomous glance of his dark eyes, “you will have some boon to ask of me, and be sure I’ll grant it—­if I can.”

Then without waiting for an answer, for the mob of sturdy fishermen, many of whom had served in the French wars, looked threatening, he and his following rode away through the Ipswich gate and out on to the moorlands beyond, which some of them knew but too well.

All the rest of that day they rode slowly, but when night came, having halted their horses at a farm and given it out that they meant to push on to Woodbridge, they turned up a by-track on the lonely heath, and, unseen by any, made their through the darkness to a certain empty house in the marshes not far from Beccles town.  This house, called Frog Hall, was part of Acour’s estate, and because of the ague prevalent there in autumn, had been long unattended.  Nor did any visit it at this season of the year, when no cattle grazed upon these salt marshes.