“Seize him,” screamed Emlyn.  “Seize Maldon, Jeffrey,” and at the words Stokes bounded away, only to return presently, having lost him in the dark passages.  Then with a roar Bolle leaped upon the two remaining men-at-arms as they faced about, and very soon between his axe and the sword of the priest behind, they sank to the ground and died still fighting, who knew they had no hope of quarter.

It was over and done and dreadful silence fell upon the place, the silence of the dead broken only by the heavy breathing of those who remained alive.  There the wounded monk leaned against the door-post, his red sword drooping to the floor.  There Harflete, the stool still lifted, rested his weight against the chain and peered forward in amazement, swaying as though from weakness.  And lastly there lay the three slain men, one of whom still moved a little.

Cicely crept forward; over the dead she went and past the priest till she stood face to face with the prisoner.

“Come nearer and I will dash out your brains,” he said in a hoarse voice, for such light as there was came from behind her whom he thought to be but another of the murderers.

Then at length she found her voice.

“Christopher!” she cried, “Christopher!”

He hearkened, and the stool fell from his hand.

“The Voice again,” he muttered.  “Well, ’tis time.  Tarry a while, Wife, I come, I come!” and he fell back against the wall shutting his eyes.

She leapt to him, and throwing her arms about him kissed his lips, his poor, bloodless lips.  The shut eyes opened.

“Death might be worse,” he said, “but so I knew that we would meet.”

Now Emlyn, seeing some change in his face, snatched one of the torches from its iron and ran forward, holding it so that the light fell full on Cicely.

“Oh, Christopher,” she cried, “I am no ghost, but your living wife.”

He heard, he stared, he stared again, then lifted his thin hand and stroked her hair.

“Oh God,” he exclaimed, “the dead live!” and down he fell in a heap at her feet.

They thrust Cicely aside, Cicely who stood there shivering, she who thought he had gone again and this time for ever.  With difficulty they broke the chain whereby he had been held like a kennelled hound, and bore him, still senseless, up the long passages, Bolle going ahead as guard and Jeffrey Stokes following after.  Behind them came Emlyn supporting the wounded monk Martin, for it was he and no other who had saved the life of Christopher.

As they went up towards the stairs they heard a roaring noise.

“Fire!” said Cicely, who knew that sound well, and next instant the light of it burst upon them and its smoke wrapped them round.  The Abbey was ablaze, and its wide hall in front looked like the mouth of hell.

“Did I not prophesy that it would be so—­yonder at Cranwell burning?” asked Emlyn, with a fierce laugh.