“If you die,” she sobbed, “surely I will do so also, for although I am but young I find this world a very evil place, and now that my father is gone, without you, husband, it would be a hell.”

“Nay, nay,” he answered; “live on while you may; for who knows?  Often out of the worst comes the best.  At least we have had our joy.  Swear it now, sweet.”

“Aye, if you will swear it also, for I may be taken and you left.  In the dark swords do not choose.  Let us promise that we will both endure our lives, together or separate, until God calls us.”

So they swore there in the icy gloom, and sealed the oath with kisses.

Now the time was come at last, and they crept their way to the courtyard hand in hand, taking some comfort because the night was very favourable to their project.  The snow had melted, and a great gale blew from the sou’-west, boisterous but not cold, which caused the tall elms that stood about to screech and groan like things alive.  In such a wind as this they were sure that they would not be heard, nor could they be seen beneath that murky, starless sky, while the rain which fell between the gusts would wash out the footprints of their horses.

They mounted silently, and with the four men—­for by now all the rest had gone—­rode across the drawbridge, which had been lowered in preparation for their flight.  Three hundred yards or so away their road ran through an ancient marl-pit worked out generations before, in which self-sown trees grew on either side of the path.  As they drew near this place suddenly, in the silence of the night, a horse neighed ahead of them, and one of their beasts answered to the neigh.

“Halt!” whispered Cicely, whose ears were made sharp by fear.  “I hear men moving.”

They pulled rein and listened.  Yes; between the gusts of wind there was a faint sound as of the clanking of armour.  They strained their eyes in the darkness, but could see nothing.  Again the horse neighed and was answered.  One of their servants cursed the beast beneath his breath and struck it savagely with the flat of his sword, whereon, being fresh, it took the bit between its teeth and bolted.  Another minute and there arose a great clamour from the marl-pit in front of them—­a noise of shoutings, of sword-strokes, and then a heavy groan as from the lips of a dying man.

“An ambush!” exclaimed Christopher.

“Can we get round?” asked Cicely, and there was terror in her voice.

“Nay,” he answered, “the stream is in flood; we should be bogged.  Hark! they charge us.  Back to the Towers—­there is no other way.”

So they turned and fled, followed by shouts and the thunder of many horses galloping.  In two minutes they were there and across the bridge—­the women, Christopher, and the three men who were left.

“Up with the bridge!” cried Christopher, and they leapt from their saddles and fumbled for the cranks; too late, for already the Abbot’s horsemen pressed it down.