“Who is this, friend?” asked Jacob.

“An old companion of mine, your worship, a monk of Blossholme who is weary of Grace and its pilgrimages, and seeks the King’s comfort and pardon, which I have made bold to promise to him.”

“Good,” said Jacob, “I’ll enter his name, and if he remains faithful your promise shall be kept.  But why do you bring him here?”

“Because he bears tidings.”

Now something in Bolle’s voice caused Cicely, who was brooding apart, to look up sharply and say—­

“Speak, and be swift.”

“My Lady,” began the man in a slow voice, “I, who am named Basil in religion, have fled the Abbey because, although a monk, I am true to the King, and moreover have suffered much from the Abbot, who has just returned raging, having met with some reverse out Lincoln way, I know not what.  My news is that your lord, Sir Christopher Harflete, and his servant Jeffrey Stokes are prisoners in the Abbey dungeons, whither they were brought last night by a company of the rebels who had captured them and afterwards rode on.”

“Prisoners!” exclaimed Cicely.  “Then he is not dead or wounded?  At least he is whole and safe?”

“Aye, my Lady, whole and safe as a mouse in the paws of a cat before it is eaten.”

The blood left Cicely’s cheeks.  In her mind’s eye she saw Abbot Maldon turned into a great cat with a monk’s head and patting Christopher with his claws.

“My fault, my fault!” she said in a heavy voice.  “Oh, if I had not called him he would have escaped.  Would that I had been stricken dumb!”

“I don’t think so,” answered Brother Basil.  “There were others watching for him ahead who, when he was taken, went away and that is how you came to get through so neatly.  At least there he lies, and if you would save him, you had best gather what strength you can and strike at once.”

“Does he know that I live?” asked Cicely.

“How can I tell, Lady?  The Abbey dungeons are no good place for news.  Yet the monk who took him his food this morning said that Sir Christopher told him that he had been undone by some ghost which called to him with the voice of his dead wife as he rode near King’s Grave Mount.”

Now when Cicely heard this she rose and left the room accompanied by Emlyn, for she could bear no more.

But Jacob Smith and Bolle remained questioning the man closely upon many matters, and, having learned all he could tell them, sent him away under guard and sat there till midnight consulting and making up their plans with the farmers and yeomen whom they called to them from time to time.

Next morning early they sought out Cicely and told her that to them it seemed wise that the Abbey should be attacked without delay.

“But my husband lies there,” she answered in distress, “and then they will kill him.”