The statue began to creak, then opened like a door, though very unwillingly, as though its hinges had been fixed for a long, long time and rusted in the damp, which was indeed the case.  Inside of it, like a corpse in an upright coffin, appeared a figure, a square, strong figure, clad in a tattered monk’s robe, surmounted by a large head with fiery red hair and beetling brows, beneath which shone two wild grey eyes.  Emlyn, whose heart had stood still—­for, after all, Satan is awkward company for a mortal woman—­waited till it gave a jump in her breast and went on again as usual.  Then she said quietly—­

“What are you doing here, Thomas Bolle?”

“That is what I want to know, Emlyn.  Night and day for weeks you have been calling me, and so I came.”

“Yes, I have been calling you; but how did you come?”

“By the old monk’s road.  They have forgotten it long ago, but my grandfather told me of it when I was a boy, and at last a fox showed me where it ran.  It’s a dark road, and when first I tried it I thought I should be poisoned, but now the air is none so bad.  It ran to the Abbey once, and may still, but my door and Mrs. Fox’s is in the copse by the park wall, where none would ever look for it.  If you would like a cub to play with, I will bring you one.  Or perhaps you want something more than cubs,” he added, with his cunning laugh.

“Aye, Thomas, I want much more.  Man,” she said fiercely, “will you do what I tell you?”

“That depends, Mistress Emlyn.  Have I not done what you told me all my life, and for no reward?”

She moved across the chancel and sat herself down against him, pushing the image door almost to and speaking to him through the crack.

“If you have had no reward, Thomas,” she said in a gentle voice, “whose fault was it?  Not mine, I think.  I loved you once when we were young, did I not?  I would have given myself to you, body and soul, would I not?  Well, who came between us and spoiled our lives?”

“The monks,” groaned Thomas; “the accursed monks, who married you to Stower because he paid them.”

“Yes, the accursed monks.  And now our youth has gone, and love—­of that sort—­is behind us.  I have been another man’s wife, Thomas, who might have been yours.  Think of it—­your loving wife, the mother of your children.  And you—­they have tamed you and made you their servant, their cattle-herd, the strong fellow to fetch and carry, the half-wit, as they call you, who can still be trusted to run an errand and hold his tongue, the Abbey mule that does not dare to kick, the grieve of your own stolen lands—­you, whose father was almost a gentleman.  That’s what they have done for you, Thomas; and for me, the Church’s ward—­well, I will not speak of it.  Now, if you had your will, what would you do for them?”