So the days went on, bringing black wrath, despair almost, to the heart of Mother Megges, till at length there came the chance she sought.  One fine evening, when the nuns were gathered at vespers, but as it happened not in the chapel, because since the tale of the hauntings they shunned the place after high noon, Cicely, whose strength was returning to her, asked Emlyn to change her garments and remake her bed.  Meanwhile, the babe was given to Sister Bridget, who doted on it, with instructions to take it to walk in the garden for a time, since the rain had passed off and the afternoon was now very soft and pleasant.  So she went, and there presently was met by the Flounder, who was supposed to be asleep, but had followed her, a person of whom the half-witted Bridget was much afraid.

“What are you doing with my babe, old fool?” she screeched at her, thrusting her fat face to within an inch of the nun’s.  “You’ll let it fall and I shall be blamed.  Give me the angel or I will twist your nose for you.  Give it me, I say, and get you gone.”

In her fear and flurry old Bridget obeyed and departed at a run.  Then, recovering herself a little, or drawn by some instinct, she returned, hid herself in a clump of lilac bushes and watched.

Presently she saw the Flounder, after glancing about to make sure that she was alone, enter the chapel, carrying the child, and heard her bolt the door after her.  Now Bridget, as she said afterwards, grew very frightened, she knew not why, and, acting on impulse, ran to the chancel window and, climbing on to a wheelbarrow that stood there, looked through it.  This is what she saw.

Mother Megges was kneeling in the chancel, as she thought at first, to say her prayers, till she perceived, for a ray from the setting sun showed it all, that on the paving before her lay the infant and that this she-devil was thrusting her thick forefinger down its throat, for already it grew black in the face, and as she thrust muttering savagely.  So horror-struck was Bridget that she could neither move nor cry.

Then, while she stood petrified, suddenly there appeared the figure of a man in rusty armour.  The Flounder looked up, saw him and, withdrawing her finger from the mouth of the child, let out yell after yell.  The man, who said nothing, drew a sword and lifted it, whereon the murderess screamed—­

“The ghost!  The ghost!  Spare me, Sir John, I am poor and he paid me.  Spare me for Christ’s sake!” and so saying, she rolled on to the floor in a fit, and there turned and twisted until she lay still.

Then the man, or the ghost of a man, having looked at her, sheathed his sword and lifting up the babe, which now drew its breath again and cried, marched with it down the aisle.  The next thing of which Bridget became aware was that he stood before her, the infant in his arms, holding it out to her.  His face she could not see, for the vizor was down, but he spoke in a hollow voice, saying—­