“Yield, Sir Christopher,” he shouted; “the Lady Cicely burns.  Yield, that we may save her.”

Christopher turned and saw also.  For a moment he hesitated, then wheeled round to run across the courtyard.  Too late, for as he came the flames burst through the main roof of the house, and the timber front of it, blazing furiously, fell outwards, blocking the doorway, so that the place became a furnace into which none might enter and live.

Now a madness seemed to take hold of him.  For a moment he stared up at the figures of the two women standing high above the rolling smoke and wrapping flame.  Then, with his three men, he charged with a roar into the crowd of soldiers who had followed him into the courtyard, striving, it would seem, to cut his way to the Abbot, who lurked behind.  It was a dreadful sight, for he and those with him fought furiously, and many went down.  Presently, of the four only Christopher was left upon his feet.  Swords and spears smote upon his armour, but he did not fall; it was those in front of him who fell.  A great fellow with an axe got behind him and struck with all his might upon his helm.  The sword dropped from Harflete’s hand; slowly he turned about, looked upward, then stretched out his arms and fell heavily to earth.

The Abbot leapt from his horse and ran to him, kneeling at his side.

“Dead!” he cried, and began to shrive his passing soul, or so it seemed.

“Dead,” repeated Emlyn, “and a gallant death!”

“Dead!” wailed Cicely, in so terrible a voice that all below heard it.  “Dead, dead!” and sank senseless on Emlyn’s breast.

At that moment the rest of the roof fell in, hiding the tower in spouts and veils of flame.  Here they might not stay if they would live.  Lifting her mistress in her strong arms, as she was wont to do when she was little, Emlyn found the head of the stair, so that when the wind blew the smoke aside for an instant, those below saw that both had vanished, as they thought withered in the fire.

“Now you can enter on the Shefton lands, Abbot,” cried a voice from the darkness of the gateway, though in the turmoil none knew who spoke; “but not for all England would I bear that innocent blood!”

The Abbot’s face turned ghastly, and though it was hot enough in that courtyard his teeth chattered.

“It is on the head of this woman-thief,” he exclaimed with an effort, looking down on Christopher, who lay at his feet.  “Take him up, that inquest may be held on him, who died doing murder.  Can none enter the house?  His pocket full of gold to him who saves the Lady Cicely!”

“Can any enter hell and live?” answered the same voice out of the smoke and gloom.  “Seek her sweet soul in heaven, if you may come there, Abbot.”

Then, with scared faces, they lifted up Christopher and the other dead and wounded and carried them away, leaving Cranwell Towers to burn itself to ashes, for so fierce was the heat that none could bide there longer.