“Follow me!” shouted Bolle.  “Be swift now ere the roof falls and traps us.”

On they went desperately, leaving the hall on their left, and well for them was it that Thomas knew the way.  One little chamber through which they passed had already caught, for flakes of fire fell among them from above and here the smoke was very thick.  They were through it, who even a minute later could never have walked that path and lived.  They were through it and out into the open air by the cloister door, which those who fled before them had left wide.  They reached the moat just where the breach had been mended with faggots, and mounting on them Bolle shouted till one of his own men heard him and dropped the bow that he had raised to shoot him as a rebel.  Then planks and ladders were brought, and at last they escaped from danger and the intolerable heat.

Thus it was that Cicely who lost her love in fire, in fire found him once again.

For Christopher was not dead as at first they feared.  They carried him to the Priory, and there Emlyn, having felt his heart and found that it still beat, though faintly, sent Mother Matilda to fetch some of that Portugal wine of hers which Commissioner Legh had praised.  Spoonful by spoonful she poured it down his throat, till at length he opened his eyes, though only to shut them again in natural sleep, for the wine had taken a hold of his starved body and weakened brain.  For hour after hour Cicely sat by him, only rising from time to time to watch the burning of the great Abbey church, as once she had watched that of its dormers and farm-steading.

About three in the morning the lead ceased to pour down in a silvery molten shower, its roofs fell in, and by dawn it was nothing but a fire-blackened shell much as it remains to-day.  Just before daybreak Emlyn came to her, saying—­

“There is one who would speak with you.”

“I cannot see him,” she answered, “I bide by my husband.”

“Yet you should,” said Emlyn, “since but for him you would now have no husband.  The monk Martin, who held off the murderers, is dying and desires to bid you farewell.”

Then Cicely went to find the man still conscious, but fading away with the flow of his own blood, which could not be stayed by any skill they had.

“I have come to thank you,” she murmured, who knew not what else to say.

“Thank me not,” he answered faintly, pausing often between his words, “who did but strive to repay part of a great debt.  Last winter I shared in awful sin, in obedience, not to my heart, but to my vows.  I who was set to watch the body of your husband found that he lived, and by my help he was borne away upon a ship.  That ship was taken by the Infidels, and afterwards he and I and Jeffrey served together upon their galleys.  There I fell sick, and your husband nursed me back to life.  It was I who brought you the deeds and wrote the letter which I gave to Emlyn Stower.  My vows still held me fast, and I did no more.  This night I broke their bonds, for when I heard the order given that he should be slain I ran down before the murderers and fought my best, forgetting that I was a priest, till at length you came.  Let this atone my crimes against my Country, my King and you that I died for my friend at last, as I am glad to do who find this world—­too difficult.”