“Aye, gladly, sir, but hear me, hear me.  Ride not to London with such slight attendance after a quarrel with Abbot Maldon.  Let me wait on you.  Although my fortunes be so low I can bring a man or two—­six or eight, indeed—­while yours are away with the wains.”

“Never, Christopher.  My own hand has guarded my head these sixty years, and can do so still.  Also,” he added, with a flash of insight, “as you say, the journey is dangerous, and who knows?  If aught went wrong, you might be wanted nearer home.  Christopher, you shall never have my girl; she’s not for you.  Yet, perhaps, if need were, you would strike a blow for her even if it made you excommunicate.  Get hence, wench.  Why do you stand there gaping on us, like an owl in sunlight?  And remember, if I catch you at more such tricks, you’ll spend your days mumbling at prayers in a nunnery, and much good may they do you.”

“At least I should find peace there, and gentle words,” answered Cicely with spirit, for she knew her father, and the worst of her fear had departed.  “Only, sir, I did not know that you wished to swell the wealth of the Abbots of Blossholme.”

“Swell their wealth!” roared her father.  “Nay, I’ll stretch their necks.  Get you to your chamber, and send up Jeffrey with the liquor.”

Then, having no choice, Cicely curtseyed, first to her father and next to Christopher, to whom she sent a message with her eyes that she dared not utter with her lips, and so vanished into the shadows, where presently she was heard stumbling against some article of furniture.

“Show the maid a light, Christopher,” said Sir John, who, lost in his own thoughts, was now gazing into the fire.

Seizing one of the two candles, Christopher sprang after her like a hound after a hare, and presently the pair of them passed through the door and down the long passage beyond.  At a turn in it they halted, and once more, without word spoken, she found her way into those long arms.

“You will not forget me, even if we must part?” sobbed Cicely.

“Nay, sweet,” he answered.  “Moreover, keep a brave heart; we do not part for long, for God has given us to each other.  Your father does not mean all he says, and his temper, which has been stirred to-day, will soften.  If not, we must look to ourselves.  I keep a swift horse or two, Cicely.  Could you ride one if need were?”

“I have ever loved riding,” she said meaningly.

“Good.  Then you shall never go to that fat hog’s sty, for I’ll stick him first.  And I have friends both in Scotland and in France.  Which like you best?”

“They say the air of France is softer.  Now, away from me, or one will come to seek us,” and they tore themselves apart.

“Emlyn, your foster-mother, is to be trusted,” he said rapidly; “also she loves me well.  If there be need, let me hear of you through her.”

“Aye,” she answered, “without fail,” and glided from him like a ghost.