“Speak,” said old Jacob Smith; “what is your answer?”
“Look behind me, master, and you will find it,” replied the man. “They set a ladder across the moat and a board on that, over which a priest tripped to take my writing. I waited a while, till presently I heard a voice hail me from the gateway tower, and, looking up, saw Abbot Maldon standing there, with a face like that of a black devil.
“‘Hark you, knave,’ he said to me, ‘get you gone to the witch, Cicely Foterell, and to the recreant monk, Bolle, whom I curse and excommunicate from the fellowship of Holy Church, and tell them to watch for the first light of dawn, for by it, somewhat high up, they’ll see Christopher Harflete hanging black against the morning sky!’
“On hearing this I lost my caution, and hallooed back—
“‘If so, ere to-morrow’s nightfall you shall keep him company, every one of you, black against the evening sky, except those who go to be quartered at Tower Hill and Tyburn.’ Then I ran and they shot at me, hitting once or twice, but, though old, the mail was good, and here am I, unhurt except for bruises.”
A while later Cicely, Jacob Smith, Thomas Bolle, Jeffrey Stokes, and Emlyn Stower sat together taking counsel—very earnest counsel, for the case was desperate. Plan after plan was brought forward and set aside for this reason or for that, till at length they stared at each other emptily.
“Emlyn,” exclaimed Cicely at last, “in past days you were wont to be full of comfortable words; have you never a one in this extreme?” for all the while Emlyn had sat silent.
“Thomas,” said Emlyn, looking up, “do you remember when we were children where we used to catch the big carp in the Abbey moat?”
“Aye, woman,” he answered; “but what time is this for fishing stories of many years ago? As I was saying, of that tunnel underground there is no hope. Beyond the grove it is utterly caved in and blocked—I’ve tried it. If we had a week, perhaps——”
“Let her be,” broke in Jacob; “she has something to tell us.”