When he had gone they sent for Jeffrey, who arrived clad in dry garments and still eating, for his hunger was that of a wolf.

“Tell us all,” said Cicely.

“It will be a long story if I begin at the beginning, Lady.  When your worshipful father, Sir John, and I rode away from Shefton on the day of his murder——­”

“Nay, nay,” interrupted Cicely, “that may stand, we have no time.  My lord and you escaped from Lincoln, did you not, and, as we saw, were taken in the forest?”

“Aye, Lady.  Some tricksy spirit called out with your voice and he heard and pulled rein, and so they came on to us and overwhelmed us, though without hurt as it chanced.  Then they brought us to the Abbey and thrust us into that accursed dungeon, where, save for a little bread and water, we have starved for three days in the dark.  That is all the tale.”

“How, then, did you come out, Jeffrey?”

“Thus, my Lady.  Something over an hour ago a monk and three guards unlocked the dungeon door.  While we blinked at his lantern, like owls in the sunlight, the monk said that the Abbot purposed to send me to the camp of the King’s party to offer Christopher Harflete’s life against the lives of all of them.  He told him, Harflete, also, that he had brought ink and paper and that if he wished to save himself he would do well to write a letter praying that this offer might be accepted, since otherwise he would certainly die at dawn.”

“And what said my husband?” asked Cicely, leaning forward.

“What said he?  Why, he laughed in their faces and told them that first he would cut off his hand.  On this they haled me out of the dungeon roughly enough, for I would have stayed there with him to the end.  But as the door closed he shouted after me, ’Tell the King’s officers to burn this rats’ nest and take no heed of Christopher Harflete, who desires to die!’”

“Why does he desire to die?” asked Cicely again.

“Because he thinks his wife dead, Mistress, as I did, and believes that in the forest he heard her voice calling him to join her.”

“Oh God! oh God!” moaned Cicely; “I shall be his death.”

“Not so,” answered Jeffrey.  “Do you know so little of Christopher Harflete that you think he would sell the King’s cause to gain his own life?  Why, if you yourself came and pleaded with him he would thrust you away, saying, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan!’”

“I believe it, and I am proud,” muttered Cicely.  “If need be, let Harflete die, we’ll keep his honour and our own lest he should live to curse us.  Go on.”

“Well, they led me to the Abbot, who gave me that letter which you have, and bade me take it and tell the case to whoever commanded here.  Then he lifted up his hand and, laying it on the crucifix about his neck, swore that this was no idle threat, but that unless his terms were taken, Harflete should hang from the tower top at to-morrow’s dawn, adding, though I knew not what he meant, ’I think you’ll find one yonder who will listen to that reasoning.’  Now he was dismissing me when a soldier said—­