How the pair got home again, they never knew, but this is certain, that after that night no one could milk those cows; moreover, some of them slipped their calves, and became so wild that they must be slaughtered.

Next came rumours that even the Nunnery itself was haunted, especially the chapel.  Here voices were heard talking, and Emlyn Stower, who was praying there, came out vowing that she had seen a ball of fire which rolled up and down the aisle, and in the centre of it a man’s head, that seemed to try to talk to her, but could not.

Into this matter inquiry was held by the Abbot himself, who asked Emlyn if she knew the face that was in the ball of fire.  She answered that she thought so.  It seemed very like to one of his own guards, named Andrew Woods, or more commonly Drunken Andrew, a Scotchman whom Sir Christopher Harflete was said to have killed on the night of the great burning.  At least his Lordship would remember that this Andrew had a broken nose, and so had the head in the fire, but, as it appeared to have changed a great deal since death, she could not be quite certain.  All she was sure of was that it seemed to be trying to give her some message.

Now, recalling the trick that had been played with the said Andrew’s body, the Abbot was silent.  Only he asked shrewdly, if Emlyn had seen so terrible a thing there, how it came about that she was not afraid to be alone in the chapel, which he was informed she frequented much.  She answered, with a laugh, that it was men she dreaded, not spirits, good or ill.

“No,” he exclaimed, with a burst of rage, “you do not dread them, woman, because you are a witch, and summon them; nor shall we be free from these wizardries until the fire has you and your company.”

“If so,” replied Emlyn coolly, “I will ask dead Andrew for his message to you next time we meet, unless he chooses to deliver it to you himself.”

So they parted, but that very night there happened the worst thing of all.  It was about one in the morning when the Abbot, whose window was set open, was wakened by a voice that spoke with a Scotch accent and repeatedly called him by his name, summoning him to look out and see.  He and others rose and looked, but could see nothing, for the night was very dark and rain fell.  When the dawn came, however, their search was rewarded, for there, set upon a pinnacle of the Abbey church, and staring straight into the window of his Lordship’s sleeping-room, from which it was but a few yards distant, was the dreadful head of Andrew Woods!

Furiously the Abbot asked who had done this horrible thing, but the monks, who were sure that it was the same being that had bewitched the cows, only shrugged their shoulders, and suggested that the grave of Andrew should be opened to see if he had lost his head.  This was done at length, although, for his own reasons, the Abbot forbade it, talking of the violation of the dead.