Oh, if only he had seen him a minute earlier; if only something—­could it have been that impious knave, Jeffrey? he wondered—­had not struck him so violently in the back and hurled him to the boat, where he lay almost senseless till the vessel had glided from them down the river!  Well, she was gone, and Jeffrey in her.  He was but a common serving-man, after all, who, if he knew anything, would never have the wit to use his knowledge, although it was true he had been wise enough to fly from England.

No papers had been discovered upon Sir John’s body, and no money.  Without doubt the old knight had found time to pass them on to Jeffrey, who now fled the kingdom disguised as a sailor.  Oh! what ill chance had put him on board the same vessel with Sir Christopher Harflete?

Well, Sir Christopher would probably die; were Brother Martin a little less of a fool he would certainly die, but the fact remained that this monk, though able, in such matters was a fool, with a conscience that would not suit itself to circumstances.  If Christopher could be saved, Martin would save him, as he had already saved him in the shed, even if he handed him over to the Inquisition afterwards.  Still, he might slip through his fingers or the vessel might be lost, as was devoutly to be prayed, and seemed not unlikely at this season of the year.  Also, the first opportunity must be taken to send certain messages to Spain that might result in hampering the activities of Brother Martin, and of Sir Christopher Harflete, if he lived to reach that land.

Meanwhile, reflected Maldon, other things had gone wrong.  He had wished to proclaim his wardship over Cicely and to immure her in a nunnery because of her great possessions, which he needed for the cause, but he had not wished her death.  Indeed, he was fond of the girl, whom he had known from a child, and her innocent blood was a weight that he ill could bear, he who at heart always shrank from the shedding of blood.  Still, Heaven had killed her, not he, and the matter could not now be mended.  Also, as she was dead, her inheritance would, he thought, fall into his hands without further trouble, for he—­a mitred Abbot with a seat among the Lords of the realm—­had friends in London, who, for a fee, could stifle inquiry into all this far-off business.

No, no, he must not be faint-hearted, who, after all, had much for which to be thankful.  Meanwhile the cause went on—­that great cause of the threatened Church to which he had devoted his life.  Henry the heretic would fall; the Spanish Emperor, whose spy he was and who loved him well, would invade and take England.  He would yet live to see the Holy Inquisition at work at Westminster, and himself—­yes, himself; had it not been hinted to him?—­enthroned at Canterbury, the Cardinal’s red hat he coveted upon his head, and—­oh, glorious thought!—­perhaps afterwards wearing the triple crown at Rome.

Rain was falling heavily when the Abbot, with his escort of two monks and half-a-dozen men-at-arms, rode up to Cranwell.  The house was now but a smoking heap of ashes, mingled with charred beams and burnt clay, in the midst of which, scarcely visible through the clouds of steam caused by the falling rain, rose the grim old Norman tower, for on its stonework the flames had beat vainly.