“And what if I refuse this same generous offer to surrender her whom I hold dearer than a thousand lives?”

“Then, by virtue of my rights and authority, I will take her by force, Christopher Harflete, and if harm should happen to come to you, now or hereafter, on your own head be it.”

At this Christopher’s rage broke out.

“Do you dare to threaten me, a loyal Englishman, you false priest and foreign traitor,” he shouted, “whom all men know to be in the pay of Spain, and using the cover of a monk’s dress to plot against the land on which you fatten like a horse-leech?  Why was John Foterell murdered in the forest two nights gone?  You won’t answer?  Then I will.  Because he rode to Court to prove the truth about you and your treachery, and therefore you butchered him.  Why do you claim my wife as your ward?  Because you wish to steal her lands and goods to feed your plots and luxury.  You think you have bought friends at Court, and that for money’s sake those in power there will turn a blind eye to your crimes.  So it may be for a while; but wait, wait.  All eyes are not blind yonder, nor all ears deaf.  That head of yours shall yet be lifted higher than you think—­so high that it sticks upon the top of Blossholme Towers, a warning to all who would sell England to her enemies.  John Foterell lies dead with your knave’s arrow in his throat, but Jeffrey Stokes is away with the writings.  And now do your worst, Clement Maldon.  If you want my wife, come take her.”

The Abbot listened, listened intently, drinking in every ominous word.  His swarthy face went white with fear, then turned black with rage.  The veins upon his forehead gathered into knots; even from that distance Christopher could see them.  He looked so evil that his countenance became twisted and ridiculous, and Christopher, noting it, burst into one of his hearty laughs.

The Abbot, who was not accustomed to mockery, whispered something to the two men who were with him, whereon they lifted the crossbows which they carried and pulled trigger.  One quarel went wide and hit the wall of the house behind, where it stuck fast in the joints of the stud-work.  But the other, better aimed, smote Christopher above the heart, causing him to stagger, but being shot from below and turned by the mail he wore glanced upwards over his left shoulder.  The men, seeing that he was unhurt, pulled their horses round and galloped off, but Christopher, setting another arrow to the string of the bow he carried, drew it to his ear, covering the Abbot.

“Loose, and make an end of him,” muttered Emlyn from her shelter behind the parapet.  But Christopher thought a moment, then cried—­

“Stay a while, Sir Abbot; I have more to say to you.”

He took no heed who was also turning about.

“Stay!” thundered Christopher, “or I will kill that fine nag of yours;” then, as the Abbot still dragged upon the reins, he let the arrow fly.  The aim was true enough.  Right through the arch of the neck it sped, cutting the cord between the bones, so that the poor beast reared straight up and fell in a heap, tumbling its rider off into the snow.