They watched him go from a window.

“Now,” said Christopher, turning to his wife, “I think, dear, we shall do well to ride also as soon as may be.  Yonder Abbot is sharp-set, and I doubt whether letters will satisfy his appetite.”

“I think so also,” said Emlyn.  “Make ready and eat, both of you.  I go to see that the horses are saddled.”

An hour later everything was prepared.  Three horses stood before the door, and with them an escort of four mounted men, who were all having arms and beasts to ride that Christopher could gather at such short notice, though others of his tenants and servants had already assembled at the Towers in answer to his summons, to the number of twelve, indeed.  Without the snow was falling fast, and although she tried to look brave and happy, Cicely shivered a little as she saw it through the open door.

“We go on a strange honeymoon, my sweet,” said Christopher uneasily.

“What matter, so long as we go together?” she answered in a gay voice that yet seemed to ring untrue, “although,” she added, with a little choke of the throat, “I would that we could have stayed here until I had found and buried my father.  It haunts me to think of him lying somewhere in the snows like a perished ox.”

“It is his murderers that I wish to bury,” exclaimed Christopher; “and, by God’s name, I swear I’ll do it ere all is done.  Think not, dear, that I forget your griefs because I do not speak much of them, but bridals and buryings are strange company.  So while we may, let us take what joy we can, since the ill that goes before ofttimes follows after also.  Come, let us mount and away to London to find friends and justice.”

Then, having spoken a few words to his house-people, he lifted Cicely to her horse, and they rode out into the softly-falling snow, thinking that they had seen their last of the Towers for many a day.  But this was not to be.  For as they passed along the Blossholme highway, purposing to leave the Abbey on their left, when they were about three miles from Cranwell, suddenly a tall fellow, who wore a great sheepskin coat with a monk’s hood to it and carried a thick staff in his hand, burst through the fence and stood in front of them.

“Who are you?” asked Christopher, laying his hand upon his sword.

“You’d know me well enough if my hood were back,” he answered in a deep voice; “but if you want my name, it’s Thomas Bolle, cattle-reeve to the Abbey yonder.”

“Your voice proves you,” said Christopher, laughing.  “And now what is your business, lay-brother Bolle?”

“To get up a bunch of yearling steers that have been running on the forest-edge, living, like the rest of us, on what they can find, as the weather is coming on hard enough to starve them.  That’s my business, Sir Christopher.  But as I see an old friend of mine there,” and he nodded towards Emlyn, who was watching him from her horse, “with your leave I’ll ask her if she has any confession to make, since she seems to be on a dangerous journey.”