“That man of blood, Sir Christopher Harflete, who has caused us so much loss,” said the old monk who had been bidden to perform the office, as the clergyman, Father Necton, had gone also, fearing the vengeance of the Abbot for his part in the marriage of Cicely.  “A sad story, a very sad story.  Wedded by night, and now buried by night, both of them, one in the flame and one in the earth.  Truly, O God, Thy judgments are wonderful, and woe to those who lift hands against Thine anointed ministers!”

“Very wonderful,” answered Bolle, as, standing in the grave, he took the head of the body and laid it down between his straddled feet; “so wonderful that a plain man wonders what will be the wondrous end of them, also why this noble young knight has grown so wondrously lighter than he used to be.  Trouble and hunger in those burnt Towers, I suppose.  Why did they not set him in the vault with his ancestors?  It would have saved me a lonely job among the ghosts that haunt this place.  What do you say, Father?  Because the stone is cemented down and the entrance bricked up, and there is no mason to be found?  Then why not have waited till one could be fetched?  Oh, it is wonderful, all wonderful.  But who am I that I should dare to ask questions?  When the Lord Abbot orders, the lay-brother obeys, for he also is wonderful—­a wonderful abbot.

“There, he is tidy now—­straight on his back and his feet pointing to the east, at least I hope so, for I could take no good bearings in the dark; and the whole wonderful story comes to its wonderful end.  So give me your hand out of this hole, Father, and say your prayers over the sinful body of this wicked fellow who dared to marry the maid he loved, and to let out the souls of certain holy monks, or rather of their hired rufflers, for monks don’t fight, because they wished to separate those whom God—­I mean the devil—­had joined together, and to add their temporalities to the estate of Mother Church.”

Then the old priest, who was shivering with cold, and understood little of this dark talk, began to mumble his ritual, skipping those parts of it which he could not remember.  So another grain was planted in the cornfields of death and immortality, though when and where it should grow and what it should bear he neither knew nor cared, who wished to escape from fears and fightings back to his accustomed cell.

It was done, and he and the bearers departed, beating their way against the rough, raw wind, and leaving Thomas Bolle to fill in the grave, which, so long as they were in sight, or rather hearing, he did with much vigour.  When they were gone, however, he descended into the hole under pretence of trampling the loose soil, and there, to be out of the wind, sat himself down upon the feet of the corpse and waited, full of reflections.